Blue Widow
by failedfracture
Summary: Hermione and Draco are both grieving for the ones they loved. Epilogue compliant.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Epilogue compliant. Draco is a real asshole in the first few chapters, a little numb, a little cruel, because this is a story of redemption. He drinks and smokes and curses which might be offputting to some, but he'll kick most of his bad habits along the way if you can hold out. The kids are mentioned but they are not in the story - they're all off at Hogwarts. Rated M for smut starting around chapter 5, and also lots of language and talk of death. Expect around 15 chapters and I'm a sucker for a happy ending so they will probably get one.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. K Rowling.

* * *

She is standing at a podium and I am in a sea of people, but I can swear she is looking right at me. I feel our eyes lock and something passes between us beyond that old familiar distaste, something equally unpleasant and infinitely more painful. Her curls move in the wind, covering her cheek for a second before she sweeps them to the side and focuses on her audience with a renewed passion.

The crowd is captivated by her call to action, and I along with them. No matter how deep her grief, she speaks with the same contagious conviction we've all grown to expect from our Minister for Magic, but I can't be the only person in the audience astute enough to see that hallow look in her eye. I think, unlike the rest, it is that look which captivates me.

Ron Weasley has been dead three weeks now. Dead like Astoria. Dead like the fallen fifty.

It is everywhere I look, death. I stand among a crowd of corpses in the making; we are all heading rapidly toward that inevitable end and all except the young ones know it, yet they squander their minutes here, waiting for a hopeless woman to give them hope.

I can see Astoria's lifeless body just as clearly as I see the woman and child standing in front of me in the crowd. I feel her as vividly as the cold wind; limp and heavy in my arms; achingly beautiful and completely void of life. I've seen my share of dead bodies, too many to count, but none so haunting as my Astoria. Had she seen Weasley's lifeless body? Had she hugged him and shook him and begged him to come back as I had done?

I feel a strong and painful emotion when I meet Hermione Granger's eyes, and though it is a foreign feeling, I recognise it as empathy. I'm not going to pretend to mourn a Weasley, but the feeling grows stronger and stronger every second I stand there.

Fuck. _I hurt for her._

* * *

Three days later

She resigned from office, effective immediately. I'm surprised at the disappointment that knots itself in my chest. I sort of thought she was stronger than that. Yet I temper my judgement, and imagine navigating this dark pathway with a thousand eyes watching me, knowing that their fate rests in my hands and one poor decision could have devastating effects. Perhaps she wasn't strong enough to keep her head, but perhaps she was strong enough to give up what she wanted for what they needed.

* * *

Two months later

The petite blonde witch in the booth across from me is staring at my near-empty glass like I am some sort of alcoholic. I'm not. I choose to drink because I like to drink, just as I like to smoke and fuck and a million other things that bring pleasure and dull pain. I am not compelled to do it like some fucked up addict. I decide at that moment that tonight will be our last encounter. I don't need some uptight bitch passing judgement on me. She is too young, too fucking perky, and she has no clue about anything. She's never felt any substantial pain, substantial fear, substantial regret. I can sense it in her countenance. She is fond of my money and I am fond of her body, that's where it begins and ends. It almost always does.

Potter is two booths over, and though we don't like each other all that much, I can't shake the feeling that I'd much rather be over there, drinking with the mourners. When he goes to the bar, I make up an excuse to follow him.

"How's Granger?" I ask. He looks at me suspiciously for a second and then relaxes. I suspect he's thinking of Astoria and that one big thing his good friend and I have in common.

I am.

"She's not good. She went to Australia, and... I'm not sure she's returning."

I'm not certain why, but I feel like I've lost something. I feel remorse, pity, anger. She is running from it. I am still sleeping in the bed Astoria died in and Granger fucking ran.

"I'm sorry," I reply. And I am. His golden trio is a distant memory, and he is here in a bar with a stumbling drunk Weasley brother. I'm not sure which one - I honestly can't tell them apart.

"I keep hearing that."

"Yes well, you should see your face, Potter. It's pretty pathetic." My words have no bite to them. "Voldemort himself would hand you a fucking handkerchief."

He laughs. I buy him a drink.

* * *

One year later

I rather like it at the Potter's cottage. It feels like an old jumper. Worn out and ugly, yet warm and comfortable. I feel a similar way about Ginny's cooking.

"Well did you shag her or not?" Ginny asks me.

"I don't kiss and tell."

"Ugh. You always say that right after you shag someone, and right before you dump them." She picks up my dish and sets it in the sink. "You're a slut."

"I prefer playboy." That's what she called me last time we had this conversation, a little over a month ago when I broke up with my last girlfriend, if you could call her that.

"Can't you decide if you like someone without shagging them? You know, instead of leaving a pile of bodies in your wake?"

"A pile of bodies?"

"Yes, a heap of beautiful naked crying women, Malfoy. They're all across London."

"Europe," Potter adds. I glare at him because he's supposed to be on my side this time.

"They ought to form an alliance and rip you to shreds. Like inferi," she makes a scary face and raises her hands like a zombie.

"If they're crying, it's because they couldn't get to my Gringotts vault," I reply with a drawl.

"You can tell within five minutes if they want your money. Yet you proceed to wine them and dine them and shag them. It's not right and you know it." She's scolding me again, and I'm feeling defensive again. This happens a lot.

My grip is tight around my glass, but my smirk is unfailing. "If I don't fuck them, Ginny, how do I know if they're worth the money?"

Potter shakes his head. I'm being deliberately crass. "Malfoy, you're going to rot in hell."

"And your punishment for all eternity will be a pile of naked crying inferi women eating you alive," Ginny adds. She's adding levity to the situation to prevent an argument, because we can both sense it brewing. It's a tactic that would work fine if I wasn't a complete arsehole who sort of wanted to piss her off. Just for fun.

"Yes, well how about a compromise. I'll stop fucking them when they stop offering themselves up." I light a cigarette, because I smoke when I drink. Ginny scowls and casts a charm to keep the smoke off her things. "It's not going to happen of course, because they all like sex as much as I do."

I really don't know why they put up with me at all.

"They think they're doing it with someone who gives a shite. Draco, I mean it, you've got to stop treating women as you do. It's not right." She's looking at me with a familiar expression that says, '_please, please be a decent person. Don't make me wrong about you_.'

Shame sets in fully, and I sit with the harsh truth. She's right, I've been callous in my treatment of women lately. I wasn't always like this - I was celibate for a long while after Astoria passed. And with the first few women I dated, I was a true gentleman. But I saw the very worst of witches that first year, and I tossed out all my manners. I run a hand through my hair. "I know. I'm sorry for it." She's still staring at me because it's not good enough. "Alright, I promise. From here out, I'll try to be a gentleman."

"Maybe you need to go out with someone your own age," Potter says with a shrug. "Someone with a bit more life experience. Seems like these twenty-somethings are really not working out for you."

"I like older women just fine. Prefer them really." I take a drag. "But where the fuck are they? _Married with children_." I wave my cigarette toward Ginny.

"Don't gesture toward my wife." Potter cringes. He thinks I like her a little too much. I probably do.

"I'm only making my point. But if she ever left you..." he looks at me like I'd better not say it, so I smile and shut up. Ginny throws a dishrag at my face.

"Draco Malfoy!" She's appalled. And flattered.

Thirty minutes later, we're laughing about Ginny's new favourite band. The conversation ran its natural course: married women, bitter women, bitter women singing. Bitter women singing horribly.

The familiar pop of apparition interrupts our conversation, and a minute later, a predicted knock on the door. It's soft, like the person knocking doesn't really want to do it. I know in my gut who it is before the door opens.

They welcome her at the entryway, hugging her and asking her useless questions, most of which she answers with a polite but fake smile.

When she sees me at the table, she freezes and her eyes widen. Potter shuffles nervously, and a hand scratches his neck because he had no reason to share with her that we were friends. She lives on another continent.

"Granger." I know she's a Weasley now, even if her husband is dead. I don't care.

"Malfoy." She looks at me, at the three glasses on the table that prove we were all drinking together and getting along splendidly, then look at her two friends.

"So, yeah... we adopted a Malfoy." Ginny smiles and gestures toward me with open arms, smiling like she acquired a shiny new toy. I really do like her a lot. "He's like a stray pup, you know. All he needed was a little food, affection... a bit of house training..." I roll my eyes.

"He does tend to mark his territory," Potter adds with a smile.

Granger looks at him like he's lost his mind.

"He likes a good scratch on the back," Ginny comes over and scratches me between the shoulders and I smile in spite of myself because she has nails and it _tickles_. "And he humps anything that moves," she slaps my arm and sits in the chair beside me.

"Knock it off," I warn her. It could be funny if Granger wasn't looking at us like we are all completely barmy.

Hermione pulls Harry into the next room and I hear them talking quietly. Ginny's eyes flash with some negative emotion I cannot pinpoint as she watches them walk out.

"I should go." I scoot out my chair.

She shakes her head no. "Stay. Try to get past it. You get along fine with me and Harry."

"It's different. She hates me."

"If she does it's because you deserved it. You're not that person anymore."

No, I'm not that person but I'm also not a _good_ person, and I don't really care to be. I cannot bring myself to care much about anything at all. My son, Scorpius, he'd be the center of my universe if he were home, but I see him rarely now that he's at Hogwarts. I can't help but think it's probably for the best.

I don't want him to see me like this, and if I'm honest I can only keep up the decent father persona for so long before I want to drown myself in a bottle of firewhiskey.

He's so much like his mother, it hurts to look at him.

I pull out a cigarette and Ginny lights it for me. She doesn't usually enable me when I'm moody, so I know something is off.

I look back at Granger through the doorway. Her kids are at Hogwarts with mine, and I wonder how she makes it through her day. Does she drink and smoke and fuck? Hah. Not bloody likely. Does she have friends in Australia who cook for her and make her laugh, like the Potters do for me? Does she have a grumpy old house elf who drags her out of bed each day and makes sure her socks match? How the fuck does she survive?

"She looks miserable," Ginny remarks.

"_You_ look miserable."

Her eyes dart to mine. I know very fucking well how Ginny Potter copes. She forgets all about herself and makes everyone around her the priority. Her husband, her children, her brothers, her friends, if she can feed us and put a smile on our faces, she feels like her life has purpose. But sometimes, when I look closely enough, I can feel her pain more sharply than I feel my own. Mine is a dull and constant ache, but hers is fresh and poignant, _sudden_, like someone just took a perfectly happy woman and ran her through with a knife.

"No, me? I'm fine."

"Liar." _I feel the blade jabbing my chest._

She leans her chin on her hand with a haunted expression and watches me smoke. She's thinking of Ron. Of all those she's loved and lost. My skin prickles with fucking feeling and I _hate_ it.

I resent Granger for bringing it back to the surface.

Two minutes later, I leave.

* * *

Three days pass before I return. It is the longest I've gone without coming over since my summer trip to Italy with Scorpius.

And I only come over because Ginny owls me and tells me to stop being such a wanker. She doesn't say it but I think she misses me. I miss her too.

It might be abnormal and somewhat unhealthy to feel this level of attachment to a married woman, but she's the best friend I've ever had in my life. Potter is a very secure man and I almost admire him for it.

She likes quidditch, cooks a damned good meal, and she isn't afraid to speak her mind. She's mourning the loss of her brother and more recently her parents, but she _is not broken_. She's completely intolerant of pouting, whining or feeling sorry for one's self, and she won't let me succumb to it which is _exactly_ what I need. She's a life raft on a stormy sea.

So I come over for a tense dinner and do my best to make small talk with Granger. She's not like Ginny at all. She puts on a brave front, but she is broken and frail and clinging to her grief in a way I relate to. Her eyes are still as hollow as they were a year ago, and though Ginny and Potter try to keep her engaged in conversation, they try to make her laugh, the smile never quite reaches her eyes.

And I learn how _she_ copes, by listening closely to her conversations with Gin. She cares for her mother and makes sure her father takes his muggle prescriptions. She drowns herself in literature and research and her mothers soap operas, _whatever the fuck those are._

She is irked by my presence, but she isn't rude and neither am I. I almost wish she would be rude, because at least then I'd know she felt something that wasn't indifference.

Because even if I don't like her much, I'm not fucking indifferent to her and I never have been. Back at Hogwarts, she was beautiful, foreign, annoying as fuck. Now? She's even more beautiful, oddly familiar after twenty-something years, and the only thing I really find annoying about her is the way she pretends _I don't fucking exist_.

In just one month she returns to Australia, and then I have the Potter's to myself again. I can't fucking wait for things to go back to normal.


	2. Chapter 2

I drop by two days later, unannounced. I never owl first anymore. They told me not to bother, which took some getting used to having been raised with _manners_. But with Granger staying there, the rules may have changed. I test them deliberately because it really bothers me that she's _interrupted my life_.

I knock twice and open the door. Granger is at the counter and freezes at the sight of me.

"Sorry Granger. Forgot you were here." I didn't.

"Well don't stop on my account," she says in her most swotty voice. I'm pretty sure it's reserved for me alone.

"I won't." I step in and close the door behind me. "Where's Gin?"

She seems wary at my use of Ginny's nickname. "She's at the grocer. Harry's in there." She nods toward the living room, and I get the feeling she's shooing me away. I can take a hint, so I go.

Potter is lounging in his recliner, taking a nap. _Who the hell takes a nap at 6pm._

I walk back into the kitchen, and Granger is unsurprisingly absent. I consider leaving, but I really do need to see Ginny, because I broke up with what's-her-face, and I feel like a shitty person. And Ginny will tell me I'm a shitty person, and then I'll apologize to someone who still thinks there is hope for me and I'll feel much better about it all.

So I pull the firewhiskey from the cupboard, grab a glass and _wait_.

Granger walks back in after a few minutes and stops in the doorway when she sees me leaning against the counter. I think she would have turned back the other direction if I hadn't already spotted her, but she knows that would be petty and completely obvious so she takes a step into the room.

I made the Potter's like me. _I can make her like me._

"Want a drink?"

She's surprised I asked. That I'm making an effort.

"Sure." _I'll give you one chance, Malfoy._

So I pour a second glass as she takes a seat at the table. It's _her seat_, Ginny told me once as she was reminiscing, and Ron's was to the left. I purposely pick a different chair after I hand her the drink.

I pull out a cigarette, because alcohol and stress are a wicked combination. She wrinkles her nose, and I roll my eyes. I light it anyway.

"So what changed? Why are you all friends suddenly?"

"I'm sure you heard the story. I had drinks with Potter a few times, came over for dinner and Ginny took a liking to me."

"Yes," she replies tersely, "But what I don't understand is why it happened _now_, and not a decade ago. With me and Ron out of the way it seems like you just sort of waltzed in and made yourself at home." She stops herself then, knowing she said too much. I catch a whiff of insecurity, so instead of seething, I blink.

At least it's not indifference.

"You're not so easy to replace. I wouldn't dare try it," I reply. Her brow furrows, and she takes a drink of her firewhiskey. I'm surprised she doesn't flinch at the taste. "But you're right," I continue, "the timing was no coincidence. Potter wouldn't have needed someone to get drunk with if you and Weasley had been around. And I... wouldn't have bothered buying him a drink. Because he had a very _full life _a few years ago. We all did once, didn't we?"

The look she gives me speaks of her pain and her sudden awareness of mine. Her lips part like she wants to say something but no words come out. _Yes, Granger. You and I have one very big, life altering thing in common._

"Time changes everything," I continue. "Whether we like it or not. All we can do is look for a path forward."

"I'm sorry," _for being a bitch_. "And you're right. You seem to occupy a very unique place in their lives."

Unique is correct. There's no real way to categorize a friendship that stemmed from mutual hatred. But I know why they keep me around, and it isn't purely for their own entertainment.

"They want to fix me."

Her eyes widened for a second, because it was true and she didn't expect me to recognize it or admit it aloud.

"Can you be fixed?" She replied.

I smile a little. "I'm a better man than I was a year ago. They make me want to be..." I pick up my glass and swirl the liquid, "..._better_. But, I think this is as good as it gets for me." I take a drink and let it burn away the hint of emotion I feel, because it's not easy being honest with someone I don't really trust, even when they are looking at me with big brown _trustworthy_ eyes. "And you may have noticed, that isn't very good at all. I smoke and drink and curse, and whatever the hell else I feel like doing. I don't really know why they bother."

She pulls her knee up in the chair. "They see you clearly, Malfoy," _and they like you anyway_. "My personal observation...It seems like part of you wants to be... good, and you also know what it entails to be good, yet you don't try very hard at it. Why?"

It's a damn _good_ question, and I know the answer but I don't really want to answer it, so we both sit in awkward silence for several seconds. When I see that she's going to wait me out for a response, I decide that being honest cannot hurt me in this instance. I am who I am, and there's no point in pretending I am anything else.

"I find it very hard to care one way or the other, after all that's happened," I reply, looking up at the shelf behind the table. There's a photograph of Ginny and her brothers, and I try to remember what it feels like to be that happy. I'm not certain I ever have been.

I clear my throat and continue. "I spent the better part of my life feeling obligated to conform in some way. But you know that. You saw it." I look her in the eye and she acknowledges the truth of my words with a slight tilt of her head. "This is the first time in all my years that I have ever been able to do whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want, with whomever the fuck I want, with very little recourse. Life is short, and there are...honestly...very few things left in it that bring me happiness. I'm not giving them up for some false notion that I ought be good and refrain from all the simple pleasures in life." I take a drag of my cigarette and I blow it out away from her face, because _sometimes I do nice things._ She looks solemn. If she's judging me, she's damned good at hiding it. "So...I'll settle for being a halfway decent person with too many vices, and I'll enjoy them to the fullest for whatever temporary happiness they provide. _I'm not hurting anyone, Granger_."

"Ginny thinks otherwise." She quirks a brow at me, and I wonder what the hell these hens have been clucking about. "Sounds like you've been a right _prick_ to every woman you've encountered in the last year."

Fucking Ginny. Does she want Granger to hate me?

"Now hang on," I say with a smile, trying to break the tension. "That simply isn't true. I am..._quite_ generous."

She makes a scoffing noise and takes a sip of her firewhiskey.

"Honestly, I'm not as bad as she makes me sound. Just ask Potter. He has a different perspective on the whole thing."

Granger laughs. "Yes, he has a _man's_ perspective. The whole lot of you are lechers."

I put my hand on my chest like I'm offended. "_Lechers_? God Granger, such sweeping generalizations. I know women who are far more lecherous than any man I know."

"Oh, like who?"

"Pansy," I reply. She rolls her eyes like it doesn't count. "_Parvati_."

She gives me the side eye because she knows I'm right. She shared a room with her so she probably knew a very long time ago.

"And what do you know of Parvati's lechery?"

"Never mind that," I reply with an amused expression, stubbing out my cigarette.

She smiles ever so curiously, a light blush staining her cheeks and I suspect... _she finds my sex life intriguing._

Thinking of Granger and myself and sex in the same sentence feels forbidden. I think one forbidden thought, and then another, and then like a downward spiral, I see our bodies entwined.

It hits me like a bludger to the chest… _holy fuck I want her_. It's a thought that's been prodding at the back of my mind for years, but it is this moment - with her smiling at me for what might be the first time, breathing in my second hand smoke, and looking at me with those big brown eyes - that I understand the depth of my desire. It's intense enough that I feel my heart leap in my chest, and I know cannot look at her a second longer without giving myself away.

So I go to the counter under the pretense of pouring myself a new glass of firewhiskey, and I think of something dull to talk about. Something we can both agree on, like the undeniable excellence of Ginny Weasley's cooking.

* * *

Supper would have tasted better if it hadn't been preceded by a half-pint of firewhiskey, but it was still delicious. The Potter's were used to me getting drunk at their kitchen table by now, but they seemed well and truly shocked that Hermione had followed suit.

She's charming when she's intoxicated. She laughs freely and touches casually, which is both a blessing and a curse because I spend the entire evening semi-hard and trying not to be obvious about my newfound affection for the witch. Making a move on Hermione Granger would be a profoundly stupid idea. She would leave in less than a month, and Ginny and Harry would be in my life forever if I had anything to say about it. Risking something permanent for something temporary didn't make any sense, and yet it didn't fix the root problem which was my suddenly deep longing to have my tongue in Granger's mouth and my hand up her skirt. It was dangerous.

We shared stories of our good times the past year, and there were many, many more than I had expected. As we started listing them out, it occurred to me that this might have been the first truly decent year of my life since Astoria passed. Hermione laughed at photographs of me and Ginny dressing up for Halloween, and it was an honest laugh, the sort that made her eyes sparkle.

Harry had worked that Halloween, and though she didn't say it I knew Ginny didn't want to spend it with her brothers when Ron was so clearly absent.

So we transfigured ourselves into wretched monsters and scared a few young children.

It was delightful.

When I pour myself a glass of firewhiskey, Granger slides her empty glass to my side of the table and my hand brushes against hers as I take the cup and fill it. I wonder if she feels the same electric tingling sensation that I feel. I think she does because she avoids eye contact with me for a minute or two after that.

Ginny gives me the side eye while I am watching Granger, so I glance at her with a questioning look. _Don't you trust me?_ I ask without saying it aloud. _NO_, her eyes respond. _No I don't, and rightfully so._ I think it is rather ironic since I had been trying to appease her and Potter by being friendly in the first place...but I suppose when they said to try and get along, they probably meant something different than fantasizing about touching her. Watching her writhe, breathe, come. _Fuck_.

I decide not to tell Ginny about the breakup after all, because it matters much less by the end of the evening than it did when I arrived. That, and hearing that I am single will not improve the sour look she gives me any time I smile at my new, _sexy_, drinking partner.

* * *

A/N: I love reviews!


	3. Chapter 3

She is sprawled on the sofa under the window, reading a book when I walk in. It isn't the first time I've found her reading in this spot, but as she peeks up over the top of the book and smiles like she's genuinely happy to see me, I know it's different this time.

It's overcast outside, but the sun is peeking through the clouds and rays of vagrant light are streaming in the window. I like the way random things are illuminated; the white knit blanket on the back of the sofa, the glass side table, her outstretched legs.

She resumes reading her book. "Ginny's upstairs finishing her article," she says, assuming that's who I'm here to see. It isn't this time, but I won't tell her that.

"Then I'll leave her to it and grace you with my presence," I reply. She pulls her feet inward to make room for me without looking up, and I silently take the seat she's offered. Her feet are bare, and her toes are a pale pink that compliments her skin tone. I don't typically like feet at all, but hers are interesting to me, perhaps because I've never seen them and they remind me of all the other body parts I'd like to see and haven't. Fuck.

"A Christmas Carol?" I say, reading the title on the spine of her book. "Isn't it a bit early?"

She continues looking at the pages. "It's a week to December. A good time to get in the spirit...so to speak."

I laugh lightly, because it's not funny and she said it anyway, which in and of itself is stupidly amusing.

"Have you read it then?" She asked.

"Mm-hmm. I was once compared to Scrooge and felt compelled to know the reason."

She drops the book on her chest and grins at me. "Is that so?"

"Well I have a lot of money and I don't especially like the holidays. I'd say the similarity ends there."

Her eyes widened. "You don't like the holidays?"

"Oh that must be blasphemy to a woman like you. Your Christmas spirit is," - I lift the book from her chest – "apparent."

It's a flimsy old paperback that looks like she's had it for thirty years and read it at least that many times, and I imagine it's likely true. She seems like the sentimental type who would read the same exact book every Christmas her entire life.

I flip through the pages, holding her place with my thumb. "How many times have you read this?"

Plucking the book back from me, she replies, "Many many times." And then she decides to share spontaneously, wistfully, "I used to read it to Rose when she was younger. I miss that."

I smile, because I had often read books aloud to my son. I don't think I miss it as much as she does; not because they aren't good memories, but because I try hard not to think much on the past. "Read it aloud if you want."

After a long pause, she says, "You want me to read to you?"

"I've a very very busy afternoon, Granger. If you're going to restore my Christmas spirit, best get to it quickly." And then, as she turned back to the first page, "From where you are is fine."

"Alright." She sits up a little and grasps the pages in her hands with a small smile. She looks at me inquisitively once more, and then begins. "_To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. There was something very awful, too…"_

I sit and listen, allowing myself to get caught up in the story, and her perfect telling of it, with well-timed pauses and admirable pronunciation. She never once detracts from the story, but instead brings it to life in a way only a fucking Christmas do-gooder ever could.

At the fourth stave, Ginny walks down the staircase and stares at us with a puzzled expression before softening into a grin. After a few minutes in the kitchen, she returns with three mugs of hot cider, which she hands to each of us silently before she curls up in Potter's armchair. That is usually my favorite place to sit, and I wonder if she noticed that I'd broken routine to sit beside Granger on the _far less comfortable_ sofa. I think, when she meets my eyes, that she _does know _and it's only a matter of time before she calls me out.

Though I try hard not to stare awkwardly at Granger as she reads, her expressions and gestures keep drawing me back. I like the way her lips move when she pronounces _Fezziwig, fettered_ and _foreshadow_. I want to hear her say _fuck_.

By the end of the book, I'm questioning reality. Somehow this day has turned into one of my favorite Christmas memories and it isn't even December yet. That, and I think, if I spend too much time listening to her read and pronounce F words, I might fall.

Fuck.

* * *

"Favorite Christmas memory," she asks after Ginny leaves for the office to turn in her article.

I know the answer instantly, but I'm not certain I want to share it. She sits silently, sipping on her second cup of cider, which is spiked this time because she saw me top off my glass and followed suit.

"The Christmas Astoria and I agreed not to invite our families over for the holiday," I say with a smile. "Scorpius was ten or so - it was the year before he went off to Hogwarts. Everyone was _furious _\- her parents, my parents." I take a drink, caught up in the memory for a moment. "Her mother moved in with us that following year and... _there went Christmas_."

She leans forward on the sofa, clutching her cup in both hands for warmth. "Her mother lived with you? At the manor?"

I nod, shifting uncomfortably. Her mother had wanted to be there for Astoria in her final days, _much to my dismay_. I liked having Astoria all to myself. It feels like yesterday suddenly. Her smile, her laugh, that white scarf she wore in the snow.

Granger must have seen me drift away in thought. Her next question catches me off guard. "Do you feel guilty for letting her go?"

"Who said I let her go?" I reply a little too quickly. I really really haven't. _I haven't._ Maybe she thinks I let her go because I see other women, but there's a reason I don't _commit_. There's a reason women don't come back to the manor with me, that they don't meet my friends or my son or wake up beside me in the morning. But I won't tell her this because she didn't ask, and she wouldn't understand.

_Fuck. Did I let her go?_

I drink, and then I drink again as she waits silently and watches me. It's her go to manipulation tactic, and although I like to think that understanding manipulation reduces its effectiveness, with her it works _every god damned time_. Maybe it's because she means well and I know she does. Maybe it's because I want to hold a conversation with her, even if the topic she chose is a difficult one.

I've settled on my answer.

"I held tight to my misery for a long while, but at some point, I had to put one foot in front of the other and trudge on." I took a deep breath. "Time changes things whether we want it to or not. But to answer your question..." _It hurts to say it._ "Yes."

She nods, mulling over my words. "I feel guilty for surviving. For leaving. Everyone hates me for leaving." Hate is a strong word, but I understand what she means. "I just couldn't bear it. I couldn't live in our home. Couldn't live the life we built together with him missing from it. In Australia, it kind of felt like I was on an extended vacation and he was back here waiting for me."

_He wasn't._

I'm surprised she confessed her feelings to me so readily. Maybe she needs to say it to someone who gets it, who has been through it, but I was one of the many who held a bit of a grudge after her disappearance, and still feel a little irked that she _just picked up and left_. But I have no right to an opinion on how she handles her grief. No one really does.

I'd considered burning the Manor to the ground a few times, but I just couldn't do it. I doubt the old magic would have allowed it anyway.

"Did it help?" I asked, truly wanting to know. Maybe I should have let it all burn.

"It was easier to get through the day. But..." she pulled her hair off to the side of her neck. "Now I have to live with the consequences. My life here is...gone." The word is a painful whisper. She left and everything changed. The world moved on without her. Without Weasley. She searches my eyes, looking for empathy, but I have none to give. Finally she says, "Tell me about Astoria."

I take a sip of cider and resist the urge to react, but my chest constricts at the sound of my wife's name from Granger's lips. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything. Everything." Sensing my hesitation, she adds, "I've often wondered what such a sweet girl would have seen in you."

I don't know why I smile. I didn't feel like smiling at all. Yes, this witch _is _good at getting people to talk; she had been a politician after all. "She was a sweet girl, wasn't she? I don't know what the fuck she saw in me." Granger grinned back at me, and something about the sincerity of it makes my own smile feel more authentic.

Maybe time has made it easier to speak of her, and maybe there's a tiny part of me that wants to share with Granger, so I resign to give her what she asked for even though I hadn't spoken of Astoria with the many people who asked; the dates who liked to pry into my past, the Potters who wanted to open me up and expose me as a kind person. I _really_ wasn't. But I loved my Astoria.

"She was... quiet. Too quiet sometimes, especially when I first met her. A bit shy, but never awkward. I didn't think it was going to work out honestly. I never much liked a wilting wallflower..."

I watch her sip her drink, curl her legs up on the sofa, and _listen_. Whenever I try to stop or redirect her, she asks another mildly invasive and well-intentioned question and I continue on awhile longer. I don't hold anything back, even when she summons up the courage to about her death.

Her eyes look rather pretty with their red rims, glistening with tears that she won't allow to fall. I feel my throat tighten at the sight of her, so I go to the kitchen and fetch a stiff drink, because I need to be numb and I'm not.

* * *

"We've barely gotten any snow this year," I said as I lounged in Potter's recliner. Ginny beat me to the seat next to Granger, which I found mildly amusing and also a little annoying. "I want it to fucking snow already. Tired of this drizzle."

The rain taps against the window a little harder, mocking me.

"So do I," Granger agrees. "It never snows where I live now."

Ginny rolls her eyes. "People always say they miss the snow, and then it gets here and the _whining_ begins."

"Well let's not wait for it then! I've heard it on good authority that it's snowing right now at Hogsmeade. Let's go tomorrow." Granger sits up from her comfortable position looking excited for the first time since I've seen her again. I smile, because it's kind of cute.

"Sure, I'll go," I say with a shrug.

"I have to work. The Cannons play tomorrow." _What a difficult job she has, watching quidditch and writing about it_.

Granger looks at me tentatively. Does she really want me to accompany her to Hogsmeade, _just the two of us_? Oh she looked so fucking excited a second ago, and I really want to make her happy for some stupid reason.

"It's fine, we don't need her," I say. "She'd spend the whole time _whining_ anyhow." Ginny looks at me like I'd better watch myself, now officially suspicious of my intentions. So I add, "Is Potter off?"

"He has the day shift. Maybe he can meet you guys when it's over." Wouldn't want us to be _alone_ together too long.

"Right then. Hogsmeade tomorrow!" Granger smiled at me, and I smiled back, but it faltered when I glanced at Ginny. The look on her face says she will fucking _skewer _me if I try anything.

When Granger walks out, footsteps lighter than usual, I look to Ginny and say, "Relax. I'll be on my best behaviour."

"Promise me, Draco. You will not seduce my best friend." Her voice was stern, but her eyes held a plea.

"I thought _I_ was your best friend," I grumble. She's never actually said anything of the sort. I'm just being presumptuous.

"Don't be a child. I get to have more than one." My chest feels a little warmer than I think is normal, like all my blood is leaking out of my itty bitty heart and filling up my chest cavity. "Now, I mean it. Promise!"

I lean back in the recliner and look up, not wanting to see that look on her face. "You really think so little of me? That I'd pull something like a 'fuck and flee' on _Hermione Granger_?"

I was met with silence, and interrupted it with a groan. _Of course she did._ "Do you think so little of her then? She's a bright witch."

"_Christ_ Draco. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"

I sit up and look at her, brows raised. "Ginny Potter, did you just call me hot?"

"Oh shut up. I only have eyes for Harry." It's too bad really, but probably for the best. "But you are objectively good looking, and she's..."

Beautiful? Single? Lonely? Fuckable? Deprived? My mind continues filling in the blanks in rapid-fire until she continues. "Well never mind it. Just promise."

Hermione waltzes back in, and I'm glad because _I really don't want to promise._

"Draco."

I ignore her.

"Draco!"

"Fucking _fine_, Ginny."

* * *

A/N: Does Draco break his promise? Probably a little... Snogging next chapter is definite, and the rest comes later.


	4. Chapter 4

Hogsmeade is fairly empty, with all the kids in school and the cold driving the locals indoors. It's a relief because I don't really want to deal with a crowd or long store lines. The snow is fresh, fluffy under my boots, and my mind swims with old memories. Oh sure I was a right prick to everyone back then, but life was simple really, my first few years at Hogwarts. I didn't have to worry about much. My family was intact, grades good, I had friends to do my bidding, and didn't care much one way or the other about being a _good person_. After all, I had almost zero consequences to face.

I pick up a snowball and throw it at Hermione's back end, _just because_. She yelps and turns around with a shocked look that morphs into a radiant smile, and my heart leaps a bit as I laugh. She looks just the same as I remember her, with her rosy cheeks and frizzy curls sticking out of her little red woolen beanie, all bundled up in her winter coat. God, she was beautiful even back in our school days, and somewhere in the back of my fucked up brain I had known it. For my life, I cannot remember why I hated her anymore.

I am still transfixed by her when the snowball hits me in the neck, wet ice dripping down the inside of my robe. I shriek (a manly shriek) as I pull at my collar, trying to get the snow off my chest.

"Good god were you aiming for my face?! Because that would be very _fucked up_ of you!"

Another snowball strikes, this time hitting my abdomen. "I wasn't aiming for your face! My aim is just really that bad," she laughs.

I hit her shoulder with a monstrous snowball, and laugh heartily when she topples backward into the fluffy snow. I move quickly toward her to make sure she is okay and am glad when she looks up with a grin. Her laughter rings in my ears as she fires another snowball my direction unexpectedly. It lands squarely in my chest and explodes in my face. The perfect hit.

"Blasted woman!" I shake the snow off and hold out a gloved hand to help her to her feet. "No more shenanigans, we've got Christmas shopping to do."

"Alright, I got my revenge," she says with a grin as she pulls herself to standing, still wobbly from the fall and the slippery snow beneath her boots. I reach out and hold her shoulder to steady her. We touch like old friends... with a sprinkle of rivalry and a healthy dose of sexual tension.

* * *

"She'd like it." I am looking at a trinket that I think Ginny might like, though I hadn't said who I was shopping for, and I glance over to Hermione with an amused look. Was I that obvious?

"Are you in love with her?"

I was gobsmacked.

"No!" It was too strong of a protest. "What are you on about?"

"Well you spend a lot of time with her-"

"She's happily married-"

"That doesn't keep us from falling for people."

I turn to face her fully, irritated until I look her straight in the eye and see something different than I expect. "I'm not in love with Ginny. I do love her though."

"Are you going to say in a sisterly sort of way?" she asks disbelievingly.

"No, in a _best friend_ sort of way. She's incredible, but she's taken, and unlike other men I'm able to shut down that sort of internal bullshit and keep my eyes where they belong." I put back the trinket, since I now have zero intention of buying it.

She raises a brow. "So you're shutting down your feelings about her?"

I am done with this conversation.

* * *

Another hour in, we're at Honeydukes and Hermione shrieks with joy when she hears the door jingle and sees Longbottom walk in. She practically leaps into his arms and I feel a sudden fit of annoyance over it. That is pretty much the _opposite_ response I receive when I walk into a room. I stay back and look at the old chums as they chat and catch up, and I try halfheartedly not to eavesdrop.

"Draco," Hermione summons me. I like the way my name sounds on her lips, the way she smiles and waves reassuringly. I don't like the way Neville is looking at me though, like he just might pull out a wand and hex me at any minute. We've seen each other several times since the war and he's never seemed _quite_ this irritated with my presence. I think he thinks I'm _with_ with her, which for some odd reason brings me great satisfaction.

So I make my way around the shelf between us and I rest my hand on Hermione's back, because it's fun pissing people off, and if he tries to hex me it will be easier to push her in front of me. _Yes, I mean it_. And I find it amusing when she doesn't move away.

"Longbottom," I pro-offer a hand, and he shifts uncomfortably. I take a breath and roll my eyes, but I don't retract it. "Oh come on, you're not going to leave me hanging here like an idiot are you?"

The corner of his lip upturns into a grin that looks more like a grimace and he accepts with a firm handshake. He doesn't want to look like the bad guy. People are predictable and I know how to get what I want from them. "Malfoy."

"Hogwarts treating you well?" I ask, because I'm having a truly pleasant day and I'm in no mood for a row.

"Yep. Just saw your kids an hour ago by the lake, and I was thinking how odd it was for them to be... well you know. Together. And then I get here and..." he looks down at my hand, still lingering at Hermione's waist.

My mouth opens in shock and then closes rapidly. "Together, you say?"

"Exactly how together," Hermione said, raising a hand, "if you can elaborate."

Neville's eyes widen. "Well, _you know_. You mean they haven't-"

"No."

"No."

"I shouldn't have said anything," Neville mutters.

Hermione and I exchange a look, neither of us giving away a reaction beyond complete and utter shock. "Well life is full of surprises," she says with a hesitant smile.

I think of halfblood ginger Malfoys and ancestors rolling over in their graves. I think of my parents faces when I told them I was marrying Astoria, who was not one of their precious sacred twenty-eight. And then, I think of my son. _Fuck it. _"Whatever makes them happy."

Hermione beams up at me, and I think perhaps I just _made her day_. "Did they seem well?" she asks Neville.

"Yes," he says with a half-grin, but it falters as he looks between us. "They've both had a rough time, you all have, but I'd say they're pulling through it. And it helps that they have each other." He looks me squarely in the eye. Yes, I see what he's up to, still poking at me to see if I'll bristle. I'm not. I won't. Fuck.

"Oh I do wish we could see them. All these bloody visitor rules..."

I think he'd break the rules for her, ex-Minister for Magic, but they were put there to keep out my sort.

We invite Neville to the Hogs Head for drinks, but he has errands to attend to and detention to oversee later, and I think he knows Hermione will continue hounding him for details on our children, so we bid him farewell. I am glad he is leaving, but well and truly irritated by the way he holds Hermione in a hug goodbye. Perhaps it's just me, but I think it lingers an inappropriately long while. She is a very _thorough_ hugger.

* * *

"Did you mean it," Hermione asks over our first round of firewhiskey, "When you said whatever makes them happy?"

"Yes," I reply without hesitation. "But it's not worth overthinking. They're young and never know how it will play out." I see her look of concern so I add, "If by some chance they marry and all that, at least we don't hate one another."

She swallows and nods, and I think by the look on her face she must be imagining how Weasley would react if he were around. I can see his angry scowl and balled up fists and it brings me a sort of twisted satisfaction. I try my best to look sympathetic and not maniacally happy.

Over our second round of firewhiskey and after a few topic changes, Hermione says with a quizzical smile, "You let Neville think we were together."

"So did you," I reply, equally amused. "And perhaps I was trying to deter him from flirting. You seemed rather taken with each other."

"Oh nonsense. He's happily married!"

"That doesn't keep us from falling for people." I use her earlier words against her with my best 'so there' look.

She remembers and her grin fades into regret. "I'm sorry I said it. It's not my place to have asked."

"No, it isn't. But I'll say it again so it sinks in your thick head. I'm not in love with her any more than you're in love with Potter or Longbottom. They're a perfect couple, almost disgustingly so, and I'd never do anything to come between them. And what's more, I'd never do anything to risk losing either of them. We've come too far for me to fuck it up."

"They really mean a great deal to you."

"Yeah." I sit back and drink. _They really do_. And the way I've been fantasising about this witch across from me is a dangerous thing. They will never forgive me if I 'pull a Malfoy', so I'm determined not to act on my thoughts.

When the third round of firewhiskey is delivered, I ask, "Do you always drink this much or am I a bad influence?"

She grins and takes a drink, then replies, "I like drinking. Always have, but..." After a second, she adds, "I'm not very fond of drinking alone. So I guess the answer is... you're a bad influence."

"Lovely." I raise my brows. "Any other bad behaviours I can encourage?"

Fuck. Don't fucking flirt.

Her face is flushed but she's still smiling. "Trying to corrupt me?" She leans back in her seat, trying not to look uncomfortable, but we both know I don't mean to offer her a cigarette.

"Indeed I am." And then, knowing a topic change is a very good idea, "You've turned out to be a good drinking partner."

"I wouldn't think they're hard to come by."

"Quite hard to come by as a matter of fact."

"Then what do you do on the nights you're not with us? I highly doubt you're drinking alone."

She could just be curious, but I think she wants to know if I'm seeing anyone. "Haven't been out much. Just quiet nights at home reading and whatnot." I do drink alone but I'm hardly going to tell her that.

"Tell me about your last night out then."

I run a hand through my hair. "Fuck. It wasn't my finest moment actually." She grinned and silently implored me to continue. "I'd been seeing her for two weeks or so," I prefaced, pulling at my collar which felt a bit tight all of a sudden. "She was... _killing me_. I couldn't make it through the night. So I broke it off with her right there at the Leaky and got a drink thrown in my face."

She laughs and it's followed by a single clap. "I'm going to need details."

Disastrous. But I'll be honest and see how that works out. I don't mind a laugh at my own expense on occasion. "For one, she kept calling me sweetie, and I really _really_ don't like pet names."

"They're awful aren't they?"

"Pansy called me-"

"Draky-poo, I remember..."

"God it was _torture_."

"For all of us."

"Astoria never even tried. I was... blessed."

"Oh Ron tried a few times but he stopped early on when I told him I didn't like it." Her smile faltered and then returned as if it had never happened. "So continue, I want to hear about the drink in the face."

I swirled my firewhiskey, "She spent an hour complaining about her roommate, her job, her pet that kept barking in the middle of the night... and all this was fine, tolerable until I realised it was leading up to a request. To stay over at the Manor." I lick my teeth while I try to think of a way to say this that won't make me sound like a complete prick. I quickly realise it's futile. "That's not something I do... Ever. So I told her... politely... that my home was off limits. She implied that I was being secretive, I implied that she was being clingy... and then," I gesture toward my handsome face and she laughs again. Clearly she enjoys the idea of me being publicly humiliated. "I probably deserved it."

"Probably." Her grin is infectious. "But tell me more about this rule of yours."

"Not much to tell. The manor is for my friends and family, not casual dates."

"Well then where do you-" she put her fingers to her lips, silencing herself. I smile widely.

"Awfully curious aren't you. If you really want to know, I prefer going home with them. But if I like them enough I might take them out on the yacht."

"Of course you have a yacht."

"But you can learn a lot about a person by their home," I continue. "Take the Potters for example. Warm and welcoming. A never-ending supply of firewhiskey in spite of the fact that they don't drink much. I knew right away that they liked having company but few came over to visit."

"Fair assessment." She leans in and takes a drink, her grin weakening. "What does your home say about you?"

"That I'm a spoilt rich man, prone to self-indulgence," I swallow because I feel an overwhelming urge to be honest with her, and I think, from the look on her face, that she can handle the truth better than most. "And that I'm still very much in love with my dead wife."

I finish the last of my firewhiskey and avoid her eyes for several seconds, because I know they hold all the emotion that I'm trying hard not to feel.

"Well, I've been living out of a suitcase for a year. I'm sure that says something about me, but I'm not sure what."

"What's in the suitcase?" I ask.

"The essentials. Clothes, my favourite books and a few photographs."

"That says quite a bit though, right? And I'd be willing to bet that all your clothes are nicely organised-"

"Naturally."

"Folded up into tight little squares, all the way down to your white cotton knickers."

"They're not all white," she says biting her bottom lip adventurously. _Fuck. _"Some of them are _cream coloured_."

"Fuck. Practical is very sexy, you know?"

She thinks I'm being sarcastic.

I'm not.

* * *

By the end of the fourth glass I'm fucking dying to kiss her, and by the fifth, my effort to hide my attraction falls by the wayside. I find myself looking at her lips for longer than appropriate, glancing down at her breasts as they hover over the table. I think she _must_ notice, but she acts like she's completely oblivious and I'm thankful for it. Her warm laughter keeps a smile on my face, her constant semi-invasive questions keep me talking. With each drink I'm more animated and she laughs more freely, and I feel like I do when I'm with Ginny and sometimes Potter. _Accepted_. It's a good feeling that I lacked for a big part of my life, so I know how to appreciate it.

Potter's clearly not joining us or he would have been here more than an hour ago, and his absence is both a blessing and a curse, because as much as I do love having her all to myself, I'm making poor choices that I wouldn't if he were here. Fuck. It's like I need the Potters beside me at all times to act as my conscience since my own is basically non-existent.

I go outside for a cigarette that I've resisted for the last hour and she chooses to accompany me _just because_. It's cold and foggy, so when I find a wall to lean against and light my cigarette, she stands _close_ beside me, absorbing my body heat. She nuzzles a bit into my shoulder and I tick off the drinks she's had in my head, but I lose count. We're both rather pleasantly drunk_,_ and though I know my judgement is impaired and I shouldn't do it, I put an arm around her shoulder, welcoming her a little closer under the pretence of warming her.

She puts an arm around my waist and even with several layers of clothing between us, I feel her touch like a scorching fire. I take a drag, blow out the smoke. It seems to go on forever, mingling with the cold fog. I watch her breath as it hits the air, clouds, disappears. I can only think of one thing on an endless loop: she's a perfect fit against me.

My hands are freezing, but I leave my gloves in my pocket because it's not so easy to hold a cigarette while wearing them, and also because I want to touch her. Fuck. This is a bad idea.

When her hand moves to my abdomen and snakes into my coat for warmth, I'm already hard. I should still her hand because she's drunk and I think _she must have_ forgotten who she's with, but I don't because _it_ feels _good_ to have her this close. I throw down my cigarette because _that's not what I want anymore_, and I let her slip her arms around me fully, glad my coat is long enough to disguise my arousal. Her body presses into mine and I enjoy her warm curves, the tremble of her hand against my ribcage. I welcome what I shouldn't.

She nuzzles into my neck, and I stroke her curls, encouraging her in spite of the nagging feeling that I ought to pull away. The feel of her warm breath has my mind reeling, my heart fluttering. _God. I want her._

"Granger. I think you're drunk." It's taking every ounce of willpower not to lean down and kiss her.

"Mmhmm." She leans into me on her tip toes.

"We should-"

She kisses me, and like the broken and weak man that I am, I pull her in and I _kiss her back_.

My body ignites. Her lips are soft and pliable, and the way her tongue moves against mine is absolutely sinful. She might be drunk, but she's not sloppy. She's uninhibited, sensual, sexy as fuck. My hand tangles in her curls, drawing her further in. I don't recall a single kiss more exquisite, none so filled with longing and quiet desperation. It was like a millennium of pent up sexual tension screaming to be released as we moved against each other, hands eagerly reaching, grasping, clinging.

Good god, _this_ is a woman who knows what she's doing. And she's really fucking good at it. She joins me inside my coat and I continue allowing her bold exploration, thankful for my warming charms. I want to open her coat and feel her against me but I resist it, because that nagging voice in the back of my head keeps reminding me: _She's drunk. Tomorrow, she will regret it._

I know I need to end this when she presses forward intentionally against my straining arousal. My breath hitches.

Fuck. This is _intense_.

_End it. _

_End it._

I pull back for air but _she doesn't stop_ so I use a bit of brute strength and flip us around so she's the one against the wall. I tell myself to hold her there and pull away, _I really do_, but she makes this sound that's somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and I cave into my carnal impulse to make her _make that sound again_.

_One more time._

I grab a fistful of her jean clad backside, and I squeeze it in a very uncivilised way, and for a solid unrestrained minute, we devolve into pleasure seeking. With her petite limbs around me, tongue curling against mine, my conscience is an afterthought.

A particularly icy gust of wind jolts me back to awareness, and with a reluctant groan I forced myself to pull out of the kiss and still her roaming hands. This is completely indecent for a public place, and while there is no one in our vicinity we could easily be stumbled upon.

"_Fuck_. As much as I'd love to continue this," I start as my thumb glides over her lips, "you're intoxicated."

"So are you," she reminds me. She gives me an out that I desperately want to take, and while I mull over the consequences which seem so far in the future right now, she takes advantage of my weak resolve and she kisses me again. Her hands run through my hair, cold fingers tracing my hairline. I sink back into her embrace slowly, hesitantly deepening the kiss. God she feels good. My arms wrap around her fully and I pull her body flush against mine. I relish the feel of her curves, her warm mouth.

My willpower is wearing uncomfortably thin, and that Slytherin part of my brain starts considering where and how I'm going to take her. Against this wall? Pay for the room above the pub? Floo to the manor?

She hooks a leg around my waist and uses it to pull me in.

_Against the wall._

I break from the kiss but she pulls me back in for another, then another. _Goddamn it she really wants this._ I place a hand firmly against her chest and let my lips hover over hers, sharing her warm air.

"Granger, I'm trying to do the _right thing_ and you're not making it very easy." I'm breathless. Beseeching. She's going to regret all of this in the morning and it's going to be my fucking fault.

"I'm tired of doing the right thing," she whispers. I can feel the rise and fall of her chest beneath my hand. Her coat is parted there, warm flesh beneath my thumb. I move it down the center of her chest bone until it snags on a button. I want to take it off.

"The things I want to do to you right now are truly...indecent." I choke out the word because she's moving against me, and it feels incredible. My forehead drops against hers. "I would need a level of consent you are incapable of providing."

Her nails rake at my scalp and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. She moves against me in a very consenting way, and my hands drop to her hips to stop them from doing their maddening dance. _She would be an excellent fuck._ She pulls me forward and kisses me again, and I let her for a second before I grab a fistful of her hair and pull her gently back.

I move my lips to her ear and run my teeth over her earlobe. "Fucking a drunk woman against a wall outside a pub _is objectively wrong_. But you should know _I am not above it_."

She moans and arches like my words are incendiary. _Fuck_. There's no scaring this one. I have no doubt she _will let me do it_. I grit my teeth and collect my thoughts. I know what I have to do.

"Let's _go_."

I push off from the wall so she knows _I mean it this time_, then I grab her wrist and pull her toward the pub, guide her around the tables to the floo, and put her into it. She gives me a pouty look that makes me regret my decision to be a gentleman.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Sneak peek at the next chapter, Hermione is predictably mortified at her drunken behavior.


	5. Chapter 5

I arrive at the cottage at half past six the following evening, and for the first time in awhile I feel uncomfortable about opening the door. My hand sits on the knob for a full minute as I summon up the courage, the aroma of Ginny's cooking stirring my appetite. They hadn't barricaded me out, which I take as a good sign.

When I open the door, Ginny is alone in the kitchen standing over the stove.

"Wasn't sure you were going to make it," she says, glancing over her shoulder with a scowl. "Hermione was pretty well hungover today."

"Mmm, six or seven glasses of firewhiskey will do that to a person."

"Good god. I'm never letting her leave the house with you again."

"She's a grown woman." I lean against the counter.

"Well her decision making skills are shite lately. I've told her as much." If Granger is in the next room, Ginny wouldn't care. She's a witch who speaks her mind freely. "Moving to Australia... quitting her job... coming home drunk... and of course _whatever else you two did._" If looks could kill I would be a dead man. Her temper is legendary.

I stare back unaffected. My conscience isn't quite clear, but it could have been far worse.

"I sent her home in one piece. That ought to count for something."

"Golly, thanks. She stumbled out of the floo looking cold and freshly ravished. _What a gentleman_." Her ladel knocks against the pot as if she is taking her anger out on it.

_Ravished_.

Yes well I suppose I could have straightened her up a bit before sending her off in the floo.

I speak quietly, deliberately. "If I weren't a gentleman, Ginny, she wouldn't have come home at all."

Her nostrils flare. "You're a menace to women everywhere, Draco Malfoy. Keep your bloody hands off of her. Got it?"

I know she means it, but after what happened last night, Ginny's directive feels like an impossible feat and I'm fucking irritated because we are adults and it's honestly _not any of her fucking business._

"Careful, Gin. Starting to think you're a bit jealous."

I know it's a fucked up thing to say and I almost regret it, especially when she turns on me with her wand in hand and sends a stinging jinx at me. I dodge to the left, and the photographs on the wall behind where I was standing clatter to the ground.

"Goddamn it!" I yell, but I'm more exhilarated than angry. She is so much fun to toy with.

"What is going on?" Granger bolts down the stairs with a book in her hand and stops at the landing.

Potter runs in from the living room and gauges the situation. "Seriously, Gin?"

I'm glad I didn't pull my wand and retaliate, because Ginny looks villainous and I look like an innocent victim. I smirk at her.

"Ugh!" She puts her wand away. "You're a _prick_."

"You're a madwoman." And I love it.

Granger is staring angrily at my assailant, perfectly aware of what we are arguing about. This cute little witch is stirring up all sorts of trouble for me, but with that blush on her cheeks and in that tight white top, I think kissing her was worth it.

"I told you to mind your own business," she says as she looks between the Potters. My gut tells me they already had a row about me today and I'm desperately curious to know what she said. "If you won't respect that, I'll go to the Leaky and rent a room."

Ah, I like her angry too.

Potter steps closer to her and replies, "We said we would and we meant that. Right Ginny?"

"Yes, _however_," Ginny raises her hand, "my beef with _hot lips_ over here is separate, and I reserve the right to call him out when he behaves poorly."

"I didn't." _Yet_. "Stop mothering me."

"Someone's got to. You're a bloody _menace_." Yes yes, she already made that clear, and the truth is she knows me well. I think we're both aware that I could have had sex with Hermione Granger last night, and there's a good chance _I may still_.

I step closer and hold her gaze. "You're a self-righteous nun."

"You two are acting like children. Harry is this normal?"

"Afraid so."

Ginny is frowning at me in that way she often does when I've crossed a limit. "I'm a decent person, and I keep hoping it might fucking rub off on you a bit."

"Hasn't it though?" Enough toying. I don't want to be banished. "I mean come on, you knew me a year ago. I am _trying_." I plead with my eyes so only she can see. This isn't meant for them.

Her eyes soften. "Try _harder_."

"Fine." I swallow and turn to Granger, that lovely little witch with her enchanting hips who I'd been thinking of without pause since I sent her home in the floo the night before. She looks like she lost a few hours of sleep, and I desperately hope she wasn't tossing and turning with regret. "Hermione, I apologize from the bottom of my black little heart if I have done anything uncouth or otherwise improper."

"You didn't." Her cheeks were red with embarrassment. "As I told these two, I drank too much and you we're kind enough to send me home when I began acting foolishly."

"You weren't foolish at all. You were perfectly lovely as I recall it." I smirk a little in spite of myself and run my hand through my hair, scratch the back of my neck. How the fuck do I feel so awkward? Thats... new.

Potter clears his throat and calls me back to reality. "Right then. Ginny is Malfoy safe to stay for dinner or are you planning to slip drought of death into his stew?"

From his tone, he is both annoyed and amused. Ginny is _not_.

"Harry, don't you side with him. You know what he's about," she says pointing her ladle in our general direction.

_What I'm about._ I want to feel insulted and angry for the way she keeps talking about me, but she's _completely fucking right_.

He walks toward her. "I'm not taking sides. It's really none of our business." He looks at me and the set of his jaw tells me he really is equally pissed off but Granger has said something to quiet him. "Besides, as I recall it _you're_ the one who let him through the wards."

"That was before we had a beautiful woman living here," she pointed out.

"There was always a beautiful woman living here." I wink at her and she narrows her eyes, but I know what she likes to hear.

Potter glares at me. "Malfoy you're not helping your case."

I shrug and sit down at the table. "I think I'll take my chances on the stew, Gin. Smells incredible. It would make a fine last meal if that's my destiny."

* * *

Dinner is tense at first, but after a few well timed quips, everyone relaxes into easier conversation. Things seem almost normal, or would to an outsider, but there was an underlying tension that doesn't usually exist between us. I do my damnedest not to stare at Hermione, but I keep catching her looking at me, an awkward sort of way that aches of shame. In another time and place I surely would have enjoyed watching her squirm. Not today. Not for this.

After dinner I consider leaving. The Potters are squabbling about who used the last of the dish soap without putting it on the shopping list, and Hermione is cautiously avoiding my eyes. Her hand rubs her neck like she's tense, and I follow the movement, watching her brow furrow and then relax. I think of massages and orgasms and the way we kissed last night. Her eyes dart to my side of the table and I think she knows I'm watching her. I don't want to be too obvious so I get up and fetch the firewhiskey from the cabinet. Before I refill my glass, I decide to have a bit of fun and I turn around to catch her eye, happily surprised when she's already looking at me. I raise the bottle and give her an amused look, asking wordlessly if she wants some. Her lips part and her cheeks flush. _No, no she doesn't._

When she gets up and rounds the table to walk toward me, my heart jumps in my chest.

"-but you do this every time, Harry-" I hear Ginny say without really listening. Hermione is closing in on me with an expression that teeters between shame and annoyance. She takes the bottle from my hand and sets it back in the cabinet.

"How about some hot chocolate instead," she suggests.

"Alright." I lean closer to her, not in an overly suggestive way, and I whisper, "Top it off for me."

I'm relieved when she cracks a smile and fetches mugs from the cabinet, and I take my seat at the table with the bickering couple.

"Look, Gin. That is _my handwriting_-"

"-_One item_, Harry. Who wrote the other twelve!"

Hermione stands on her toes to retrieve something from a high shelf, and I watch discreetly. Graceful limbs stretch above her head, a long slender torso draws my eyes downward. I imagine myself behind her, feeling the curve of her hips up to her waist. She's a petite hourglass beneath my hands.

She finds what she's looking for, a bag of marshmallows behind the other sweets that Ginny keeps out of reach, and I feel the sting of disappointment as she retreats and moves to the left, effectively blocked by Potters fat head.

A moment later, she puts them away and this time her shirt rides up, just an inch. I look at the ceiling. _Fuck._

"-even _Malfoy_ adds more to the shopping list than you do-"

I chuckle and Potter glares at me. "She's right, slacker."

"Bugger off. Ooh, hot chocolate!"

Granger distracts the couple with two steaming hot mugs.

"Thanks, Hermione," Ginny says with a friendly expression. How is Hermione the only one of us not facing the fucking wrath of Ginny Potter?

"You're welcome. Perfect for a cold night like this."

"It is. Maybe I'll start a fire later," Harry replies.

Granger rounds the table with the last two mugs, walking slowly and carefully. Her hips don't sway as they normally would because she's trying not to spill the liquid, and I hear my mothers voice in my head telling me _a gentleman would have gotten up to assist her._ I note it for next time.

"Well don't forget to lock the floo this time-"

"-_For fucks sake_-"

"-you caught Luna's robes on fire!"

"-I can't do _anything_ right-"

She sets the mug down in front of me, and I try very hard not to look at her chest, but she's close and it's a _perfect fucking view. _I glance at the ceiling again. Fuck, I'd love nothing more than to pull her down into my lap.

"A bit skimpy on the marshmallows," I comment, trying to keep things lighthearted.

She spills a bit of her own chocolate on the table as she sets down her mug, and a vexed look crosses her pretty face. "Would you like more marshmallows, Malfoy?"

"Yes," I flash her a teasing smile. "Please."

She returns to the cabinet and as she reaches up toward the shelf I find myself scratching my neck, trying not to stare. Fucking beautiful sight, that is.

Out of nowhere, the bag of marshmallows flies out of the cabinet and directly toward me.

There's no dodging it. The fucking thing smacks me in the forehead and then continues battering me. I hear Potter laugh.

"Blasted witch!"

_Whack - whack - whack._

I'm trying to swat the bag away but all it does is result in individual marshmallows attacking my face. I summon my wand and cast the damned things back in Ginny's direction, but our magic counters each others and it results in a marshmallow cyclone in the kitchen as we glare at one another, wands out and ready for battle.

She's pretty fucking scary in that moment. I swear I see her hair crackle and I know instantly this is a battle I'm going to lose.

I raise one hand in surrender and we call a truce. The marshmallows fall down silently and I smirk at my attacker because she has marshmallows stuck in her red hair. So does Hermione, who is leaking against the counter with her arms crossed, hiding a smile.

Harry summons a quill and writes on the shopping list:

_Marshmallows_.

* * *

"I am so..._sorry_...for the way I acted last night." She takes a seat beside me on the front porch step as I light a cigarette, and puts her face in her hand, humiliated.

"I figured you would be. That's why I sent you home," I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. It's interesting how we all keep calling this her home, like Australia just _isn't._

"You shouldn't have had to send me home at all. I should have kept my hands to myself."

I lift my hand, lit cigarette pointing downward. "I have that effect on women."

She smacks my arm.

After a second, her playful anger subsides and is replaced by a more solemn expression. "It was still wrong."

"It wasn't," I say quickly. "Regardless what you or _they_ think, there's nothing at all wrong with what happened." Fields of grass stretch out in front of us, swaying in the darkness, rustling in the wind. "We are human. We're made to avoid pain and seek pleasure. Add alcohol and _viola,_ we act on our impulses_."_ I take a long drag and blow out the smoke. "There's no moral quandary here, so stop looking for one."

"Then why do I feel so guilty?" she whispers.

I swallow down an unexpected emotion. I sort of figured that she hadn't been with anyone since Weasley, but hearing her speak of her guilt removes all of my doubt. She's still faithful to his memory. "I assure you, it's self-inflicted," I say and then pause, remembering how I felt the first time I'd kissed a woman after Astoria passed. It was an uncomfortable sort of feeling, a bit like betrayal even though I knew rationally that it wasn't. I overcame it more quickly than I think Granger might. "It goes away after awhile, if you let it."

She nods. "After all these years you and I are finally...sort of...friends. I don't want it to be awkward, alright?"

"I feel a lot of things when I'm with you Granger, but awkward isn't really one of them," I say with a barely there grin. I feel her eyes on me but I don't dare look at her with that admission lingering between us. I expect she's blushing and such.

"Well _I_ feel awkward," she replies quietly. "I don't just do that sort of thing, you know."

"I know." I turn to look at her then. "You really think too fucking much. Maybe some firewhiskey will help."

She laughs a single laugh. "I think it's best we don't drink together anymore."

I throw my cigarette on the ground and step on it. Do I dare press my luck further? _Sure, why the fuck not._

"Or if we do, we really need to get this _consent_ thing out of the way. It's not easy to say no to a beautiful woman."

Her eyes dart to mine as I stand up. She can't tell if I'm joking or not.

I'm not.

But I smile to ease her troubled thoughts and offer her my hand. Her fingertips are cold but her palm is sweaty, and I think she must have been nervous to speak to me tonight. I like that I make her a little anxious and awkward, because it means she's not indifferent to me.

God. _I really fucking want her._

I open the door and a gush of cold wind follows me inside.

"I'm making meatloaf tomorrow Malfoy," Ginny says as I cross the threshold.

Ick. My least favorite dish.

"Trying to get rid of me?"

She smiles with a dash of venom. "Is that all it takes?"

"I think I'll bake an apple pie while you're at work tomorrow," Hermione offers as she closes the door behind her. "You've done all the cooking Gin. I want to do something nice for you."

I think she wants me to come back. Or maybe she's kissing up to Ginny. God knows she's in a foul fucking mood today. Ginny looks between us both and when she decides that _no, we weren't snogging on the porch,_ she seems to relax. "Thanks," Ginny replies, "that's very thoughtful. Harry's starting a fire, let's join him in the living room."

"I'll be going, Gin." I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. She doesn't welcome it but she accepts it because in spite of our bickering, we are still best friends and nothing is going to change that. I won't allow it. "You guys enjoy your evening."

"Will we see you tomorrow?" Hermione asks casually.

"Well I wouldn't mind a bit of apple pie."

Ginny folds her arms. "We'll save you some if we don't see you."

I grin at her. "You'll see me."

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed reading! Thank you for the reviews.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: There's a bit of smut ahead so be warned!

* * *

"Want to help?" Hermione asks from the kitchen counter without turning to look at me. She's wearing a purple dress with short sleeves and a tiny floral pattern, and a white apron over it. The ensemble would look homely on anyone else, but not her. Or perhaps my perception of her is skewed because of how I'm feeling.

"Help you make a pie? That's very funny."

"Oh come on."

I had arrived a bit early, having spent the day in endless fucking meetings on an investment that had went sour. I stand to lose a lot of money, but I _have_ a lot of money, so I'm not going to let it ruin my day. Then I came here, because I didn't want to return to the manor, didn't want to have drinks with men who remind me of my father, didn't have anything else to do, or at least those were all the excuses I told myself. The truth was gnawing at the back of my mind; I wanted something I wasn't supposed to have. I wanted to be alone with her again.

So I get up from the kitchen table and join her at the counter, because she asked and it's an excuse to be closer to her.

"Here," she says, setting a pie in front of me. "You get to do the fun part. Add the top. Seal the edges." She comes closer and provides the flattened dough on a piece of parchment and a dull knife. I look at them in confusion as she sets to work on the next pie.

"Do I get instructions at least?"

"It's pretty basic. Lift the dough. Set it on top of the pie. Press the edges together. You can't really go wrong."

I thought that must be a lie. There were several ways I could fuck this up and she was just looking for a good laugh, but I went along with it. I put the dough on top of the pie and cut around the edges. It's oddly satisfying, the slight give of the dough beneath my knife. Perhaps in another life I'd been a murderer.

"Are you an artist?"

I stop, surprised at her words. "In my entire fucking life, no one has ever asked me that question."

"Your attention to detail, your penmanship...It would fit."

I'm ensnared in an old memory, one which I would typically shut down, but the answer to her question is within it. "I had some raw talent when I was young but my parents didn't approve of my interest." They didn't approve of most of my interests, in retrospect. "What about you. Any special talents?"

I think of the way she kissed and moved her hips. She definitely has talents.

"None worth mentioning."

"You read plenty. Do you write?"

She bites her lip. "A little." After a long pause she looks out the window and adds, "Someday I'd like to be a published author."

"Fiction or non-fiction?"

"I'll let you know when I figure that out."

"I'm sure your memoirs would fly off the shelves."

"Oh no," she says with a smile as she fills the next pie. "I'll be keeping my memoirs to myself."

"Probably good for my sake." I feel an uncomfortable swoop in my stomach. "I'd be the villain all over. If I'm worth mentioning."

There's a meaningful pause before she continues, "You've played a notable role."

"I'm sorry for it," I reply quietly as I press down on the edges of the pie. I've done many horrible things, and she has seen the worst of me, it's certain.

"I know." And then after another long pause, "If I ever wrote a memoir, I think you'd be redeemed by the end of it."

I smile, but it's humourless. "I'm not very redeemed at all though, am I. As Ginny says, I'm a menace." I'm annoyed by Ginny's words, perhaps more than I was the day before since I'd had an entire night to replay them in my head.

"Yes, well I have my own theories."

"Do tell," I say as I hand her my finished pie. A work of art if I do say so.

She laughs a single laugh, and then she says, "I'd rather not." I watch her place the pie in the oven, crouching down in a way that tells me she's trying intentionally hard not to be suggestive. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference. I still feel the pull.

"You were a politician. I expect you're decent at reading people," I reply. I'm deadly curious what she thinks, and also a bit fearful. I wash my hands in the sink and continue, "So tell me all about myself."

She shakes her head, hesitating for almost a full minute before she finally relents. "Assuming that Ginny is right and you are often unkind to women..."

I clear my throat. "Depends on how you would define _kind_." I do give them plenty of orgasms and that really ought to count for something, right?

"Yes well," she smiles, taking my meaning, "I suspect your relationships last a bit _longer_ if they're after your money. You can rationalise your actions. You give them the luxury they seek, they give you whatever you seek." Her hands fidget. "But if they're after intimacy or...your heart, you cut things off quickly," she says, and I still because though I hadn't given it much thought, it's very true. She continues, "Ginny and Harry are worried that I'm your next _victim_, and I'm sorry for that. They're just protective because of... all that's happened. But I don't share their concerns. I'm not after your money or your heart-" _But she might have it anyway_, I worry.

"Ahh, then you just want my..."

"-_friendship_."

"Is that all?"

Her hands still, and I wait for her to protest, slap me on the arm, curse me, anything really, but she does _none of those things_. Maybe she doesn't think my question is worthy of a reply, or maybe... she just doesn't want to say the answer aloud. Either way, the silence is so fucking thick around us that when she finally turns on the sink to wash a pan it sounds like Niagara Falls. I know we both want more, otherwise that drunken steamy kiss never would have taken place. She's looking at her hands like they belong to someone else and I'm feeling what can only be described as goddamn _butterflies_, because she just opened the door a fraction and I have every intention of walking the fuck through it. I think of Ginny and Potter for a second and consider the repercussions to our friendships, but _I_ _can make them forgive me for this_. They've forgiven me for worse things, after all, and I won't hurt her. I _can't_ hurt her. She leaves in _two fucking weeks_.

Maybe Granger is onto something about me. I haven't been so drawn to a witch in years, and it happens to be the one who _isn't after my heart_, the one who _I know is going to leave me_. One side of my stupid fucked up brain says 'she's safe!' and the other screams 'no she isn't, you dolt!' because my heart has never been at risk, and I think it might be this time.

She turns off the faucet and looks down for the towel to dry her wet hands, but the cloth isn't where she expects. _How odd._ She checks the counter, then turns slowly to look at me, knowing already what she will find. The cloth, in my hand. She looks a little amused and waits for me to hand it over to her. I don't.

She leans in to grab it from me, but I pull it back so she'll come and fetch it. I'm not generally a playful person, but I have my moments and I do know how to get what I want. She steps in close to reach for it, and when I have her where I want her, I take the cloth and begin to dry her hands with it.

"You know," I start as I wrap her hands in the cloth, "I spent a lot of time in my head, pondering things like the meaning of life and death. Trying to understand. Maybe make peace with my circumstances." I dry the palm of her hand, running my thumb over it in circles. "And for the sake of being honest, I am not a very self-reflective man... I never have been. All that time I spent in my head was _fucking_ _torture_. But..." I swallow, because I've never said any of this aloud and it's not easy. "I didn't want to be happy. I didn't feel like I had a right to seek happiness. I don't feel that way anymore, but I think," I hesitate, "that you do."

She whispers, "How did you escape it?"

"Very...fucking..._slowly_. I didn't just wake up one day and want to get out of bed. I gave myself little things to look forward to. Small things. Things that some people might think were insignificant, but that made me feel like life was worth living. Like... standing in the sunlight." I run the cloth over her hands one last time and set it on the counter. "What else do you think is on my list?"

She almost smiles, but not quite. "Firewhiskey. Cigarettes. Sex," she guesses, not meeting my eyes.

"Sure sure, but those are bigger things. My vices. Break them down a bit." I think about the way she says F words again. _Fezziwig. Foreshadow. Firewhiskey. _

She looks up at me and then away, and I know she's not going to answer. She might not even know how to. So I continue, "The tingle I feel right after my second glass of firewhiskey. A cigarette between my fingertips." I breathe in and out, feeling that unfamiliar flutter again. "Standing close to a woman I desire."

When she looks up again with her ethereal brown eyes, I know she longs for me; I see her inner conflict written in the furrow of her brow. I want to kiss away her worries and then promptly _fuck her senseless_, and... if the rise and fall of her flushed chest is any indication, she just might let me do both those things.

I could be a gentleman and end it here with a modest kiss on her hand. I can be a 'menace', as Ginny likes to say, and take whatever Granger will give to me. But the truth is, I am neither of those things and I never really have been. What I know is this: I really fucking want her, but I do not want her to hate herself later. If I take too much, she might.

I lean forward and touch her arms gently. Her skin is soft beneath my fingertips and though I can feel her nervous tension, see her eyes dodging mine, she doesn't flinch or back away. She also isn't offering herself up like she did that night in Hogsmeade_, _and I didn't expect her to but _fuck I loved that feeling._ She is thinking clearly this time though, and she is holding her ground deliberately, aware of my intentions and still daring me to act.

My hands travel up to the back of her neck, and I graze my thumbs across her cheeks. It's an intimate gesture and she meets my eyes with a flash of shock. I think she expected many things from me, but not that.

I kiss her.

It's intentionally chaste, fueled by incipient lust but tempered by her concern and my fear of scaring her away. I need her to understand that I am not going to drag her up the stairs and bend her over like an animal, which I think from her anxiety, she half expects thanks to _Ginny fucking Potter_. I want to reassure her that even though I desire her deeply, I also _respect_ her deeply, and though the thought does cross my mind _frequently_ I'm not looking to take advantage of the situation. I pull away and look her in the eye long enough to see her concern ebb, replaced by that fiery passion I'd hoped for.

Fuck. She is beautiful.

The next time I press my lips against hers, it's more insistent, imbued with all the need I withheld the first time and when she parts her lips for me with an intake of breath, I'm overcome. It's not just my building arousal that drives me although that is intense in itself, it's this warm feeling in my chest that feels a bit like gratitude but more palpable.

I tangle my hand in her pinned up hair and pull her close, exploring her mouth with a languid and sensual kiss, enticing her to relinquish her self-restraint and fucking _go with it_. The very second she gives, I feel a jolt of white hot lust from head to toe and it concentrates in my twitching groin. That familiar dance of tongues I've been fantasising about since our first kiss is even more perfect this time because she's aware. I don't have to wonder if she really wants it, _I know_.

Her kisses are of the sexiest variety. Soft and sensual, but deliciously _eager_. There's a contrast in the way she moves, caressing my neck and my collarbone almost demurely while her lips and her tongue are five erotic steps ahead and beckoning me to do indecent things to her. For a studious little bookworm turned politician turned sorrowful widow _she is a bit of a vixen_.

After a minute, I cave into her tempting kisses and my hopeful interpretation of them and my hand travels outside of those invisible bounds. I graze my hand over her breast, thumbing the stiff peak and she rewards me with a gasp.

Fuck.

She shifts in my arms and when I realise she is rubbing her thighs together my head swims with a number of lewd images, all the many ways I could give her the friction she needs. I pull the clip from her hair and it clatters to the floor and then I kiss her hungrily, my hand knitting into her curls. Before I fully think it through, my hand is up her skirt and grazing against her soft thigh and...fuck, I really didn't mean to act so hastily on my own desire. This is supposed to be me _not taking advantage. _Her nervous tension returns and hands still against me, but in spite of her hesitance she's not pushing me away.

I pull out of the kiss before she has a chance to do it and I look her in the eye, rather pleased that she looks dazed and disheveled; thoroughly snogged.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask with a brittle voice, my hand resting at the top of her bare thigh and tracing her hem with my thumb.

She searches my face, looking for the meaning in my words. Yes, I could be clearer and tell her precisely what I intend to do next, which is to _stick my hand in her knickers and get her off_, but I don't think she's ready to hear my colorful language so I decide to let her guess.

"Not yet," she replies. _Don't stop now, but don't take it too far_, I hear, and I'm blissfully happy because even though the pulsing cock in my trousers keeps egging me to _fuck her_, the fantasy that's been playing on repeat in my mind is so much simpler and just within reach.

I want to see her come.

So I kiss her again, sweet, soft kisses that slowly lull her back into a state of pliability, and then I kiss my way down her jaw and brush my hand along the front of her knickers. She stands very still, but it's an expectant sort of quiescence, like she is eagerly anticipating my next move. I trace a line directly down the cotton fabric and when my hand arrives at its destination between her thighs, a sigh escapes her_. God I love the way she sounds._ That warm wetness against my fingertips reminds me that we are both achingly ready for an activity we're denying to ourselves. I can see it in my mind; we would align, I'd thrust, she'd be soft and wet and _ready_, but...today is not that day.

I tease her with my fingertips and relish in the way her hands clutch my robes, her shaky breath encouraging me to continue my exploration. So I don't hesitate, I won't wait for her to chicken out. I leave a last wet kiss on the crook of her neck, careful not to leave behind any love bites, and capture her in a greedy kiss. And then, with my hand tangled up in her hair and holding her to me, I dip my hand into her knickers and touch her silky wet folds, smothering her soft, high pitched moan.

I'm circling, flicking, rubbing, _curling_, learning what she likes best, and it doesn't take much time because she's responsive as hell. Every dulcet sound sends a message, which is received by my fingers and also my groin, and fuck fuck _fuck_, I want this witch as I've never wanted a woman. Her tongue is heavenly and I move my own against it with renewed urgency, and as she senses my own burgeoning need, she refocuses on me, dragging her nails through my hair. Trailing her hand down my chest, my abdomen.

When she puts her hand on my straining erection and grinds her palm against me I make a choked noise. _Fuck_. For an alarming second, my mind and my cock are aligned in their ambition toward a singular goal, to replace my fingers and fill her up. Fucking _deep_. I want it all, her moans and her fingernails; I want her panting and writhing, and...oh goddamn it, my stupid fucking cock can wait it's turn because her bliss is all I need today. I love the way her hand feels but I do not have the self-control, so I break our kiss, wrap an arm around her waist and pull her tight to me, lifting her up and effectively blocking her effort.

She squeaks a little at the suddenness of being picked up, and I smile into her neck as her limbs wrap around me for stability. I stumble back two steps and lean against the table for support. Sure, I'm manhandling her a bit but _she can take it_. She's light enough, and as I reposition her a little on my thighs I find I have good range of motion. _More control_. Using it to my advantage, I capture her lips and thrust my fingers into her deep and fast. I want her to remember what it feels like to _get fucked_. It has the desired effect and she begins whimpering softly, the sound punctuated by my palm clapping against her over and over.

Fuck, it's hot seeing her like this, coming slowly unraveled. I look down between us at where my hand disappears under her skirt liking the way the fabric is disturbed with my movements. Liking the way her nails twitch into my shoulder. Liking the way she tugs at my hair while she kisses me, sinful erratic kisses that tell me exactly how lost she is to this.

She curls into my arms, holding tight and gasping as my hand moves more expertly, nimbly against her, giving her the extra friction she needs to reach her peak. She trembles, air coming in short bursts and she buries her face against me.

Out of seemingly nowhere, an image threatens to invade my mind. I know I should be focused exclusively on Granger, or if there were a distraction, let it be my own aching arousal or the thought that, yes, one of the Potters could come home early and _find me with my hand between her legs_.

Instead, I see fearful blue eyes and straight brown lashes.

Fuck. I can't imagine why I'd think of my Astoria at a moment like this. I never have before. Something about Granger taps into a part of my mind that I keep locked tight. Her guilt and fear of letting go are just as contagious as her steadily building climax. I wonder if she's thinking of Weasley, feeling like shite for letting me do this to her. I shut that thought out of my mind right along with my beautiful wife and I lock the door tight, rooting myself in the present moment. The fogged up kitchen window, patterned drapes, delicate gold earrings, smooth caramel curls. Granger. Granger. _Granger_. When she whimpers into my collar again, a needy and carnal sort of cry, my hips rise of their own volition. Fuck she is _everything_, and all of my senses refocus on her as though nothing else exists in the entire world. I hold her tight and my fingers work against her rhythmically, pushing her to the edge as her thighs tremble against mine, squeezing, legs straightening. Walls tighten around my fingers and it is so fucking intense that my groin tightens up in anticipation.

She stills and holds her breath, and like a reflex I do the exact same fucking thing, the three heartbeats of complete silence cutting into my soul.

She comes with a cry and a shudder.

_Fuck._

_Yes._

I feel her open mouth against my neck; breath hot, nails that were in my skin releasing their hold as waves of tension wrack through her body. I need her _so fucking desperately _and at the same time I need nothing at all except to stay right here and lose myself in her bliss. If I could hold her just like this, feeling her flutter around my fingers for the rest of my life I swear to God I'd do it.

She gasps for air like she's been underwater and then her legs give, but I catch her in my arms and hold her weight, hugging her tight against me. I wonder, does she feel my heart hammering as I feel hers? I think she must, and I cannot explain why I'm so fucking affected by her state, physical or emotional, but I'm in it with her whether I like it or not.

After a minute, she stands firmly on her feet and looks up with glossy eyes, focusing on my shoulder, my neck, anywhere except for my face. Her lips are swollen and dark pink, hair a tousled mess. When I'm sure she doesn't need my arms to steady her, I loosen my grip and I straighten out the hem of her dress, smooth down her rumpled skirt, adjust her sleeve and bra strap, and then I stand tall and embrace her warmly, kissing the top of her head. This isn't a thing I do and I know it, but everything is different with her.

_Don't fucking fall, Draco._

She stays there a long while, with her arms hooked under my shoulders and head tucked under my chin, and then with a 'ding' of the kitchen timer we are both tugged back to the present. She steps away, fetches her kitchen mitts and retrieves the apple pie from the oven.

I'm sure she feels my eyes on her as I watch from the kitchen table, but she doesn't speak or turn to look at me. In fact, she doesn't look me directly in the eye until sometime after the Potters arrive. By then, her hair is fixed neatly and I've long since excused myself to the loo for a vigorous wank. She glances at me furtively while I eat apple pie for dinner in lieu of Ginny's meatloaf, and I smile at her. It's not a suggestive grin, it's a _thank you for no longer ignoring my presence and also for that thing earlier_ grin, and when she smiles back softly, I think she knows it.

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the read... :) A little crass but tried to be transparent with his thoughts. Thanks for the reviews, they are appreciated! I still need a beta so PM if you have a recommendation.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This chapter contains somewhat mild smut, as does the next.

* * *

I didn't make it by early enough to catch her alone. I've been running late all fucking day, and I am not a late person so that really says something. I couldn't sleep, so after tossing and turning for awhile, I got up and drank a fuck-ton of firewhiskey, then stumbled around the manor trying out the beds in each of the fourteen guest rooms. I'm done sleeping in my goddamn marriage bed. Tired of paying homage to an old memory I'll never recapture. I passed out in my childhood bedroom, which I hadn't slept in since I was eighteen.

Harry and Ginny are upstairs either arguing or fucking I assume, because the silencing charms are thick. I find Hermione on the back porch watching the sunset. I rarely see that side of their house since we almost always congregate in the kitchen, and I forget sometimes that it exists at all. From the look of the flowerbed, the Potters have forgotten as well.

I sit beside her on the old stationary oak bench and resist the urge to light a cigarette.

"Parvati's coming over for dinner tonight," she says with a hint of a smile as she takes a sip of her cider.

Fuck. Parvati was one of those massive mistakes that I knew would come back to haunt me.

"Trying to get rid of me then?"

"Honestly, it isn't always about you. Ginny told her I was in town for a few weeks and she insisted on coming by," she says.

I pull out that cigarette, because _fuck it._

"It's not my business, but... do you mind if I ask what happened?" She seems curious, but hesitant, like she isn't sure she really wants to know at all. "It's safe to say you'll come up in conversation."

I'm wracking my brain, trying to find a way to say this without sounding like a total prick. It's depressing how often I have to do that. "We were seeing each other for a couple of months after her divorce. I'll spare you the sordid details. It wasn't anything serious."

"I assume it was a messy ending?"

I almost laugh, but somehow manage to keep a mostly straight face. She really doesn't have a dirty mind at all. It's sort of endearing.

"You could say that. Rusty memory...but I think it ended... abruptly. Right after one of us...suggested a threesome."

"_Really_."

"It was her, definitely her," I say with a small smile. It's a blatant lie, and I can tell from her suspicious side-eye that she knows it. I scratch my face. "I clearly remember telling her, _I'm just not that kind of man, Parvati_."

"Ahh. Is that what you said," she grins, and I'm seriously fucking thankful she sees humour in my words, because that's not the worst of it.

"And with her _twin sister_, no less." I give her a falsely appalled look. She covers her mouth in shock, eyes widening. "I mean, this woman has no boundaries whatsoever. It's almost insulting, you know."

I think she's hiding her amusement because her eyes look like they're smiling. When she moves her hand away, she tries very hard to keep a straight face. "Yes, I can see how one might be upset about that sort of proposition."

"But if I ran into her on the street tomorrow," I continue, "I'm sure... _she_...would apologise. She would say it was a wretched and tasteless thing to suggest and beg forgiveness."

She looks me in the eye, a bit more seriously. "And would you forgive her for it?"

I think she wants to know if I'm still interested, so I reply, "Absolutely not."

She nods.

"There's no point in revisiting the past," I add quietly. "I think I've said it before, but time changes everything. I'm not the same man I was when Parvati and I were together. Fuck... I'm not even the same man I was yesterday."

"Who are you today then? A changed man?"

"Still fucked up. Just in a brand new way."

Her lips part like she is going to say something but cannot find the words, and then her gaze intensifies. My heart does a quick skip in my chest because I feel that familiar pull to kiss away her worries. I wonder if I can get away with kissing her here on this bench, with the Potters in the house and the sunset ahead of us, or if she'd pull away.

I decide not to chance it.

* * *

Harry appears on my doorstep around 8pm that night. He and Ginny are literally the only non-Malfoy's who can enter the grounds without an escort, but my elves still warn me in a panic the instant the front gate opens.

Tonight it's Fleck who appears in my study. He's our oldest and most traditional elf, and when I tell him to escort Potter in, he looks as if he's going to having a coronary.

He disappears and a minute later, I hear the door click.

"Two hours Malfoy. It takes thirty seconds to send post and you let me suffer for Two. Hours."

"For fucks sake, Fleck. Would you take the mans coat? He's dripping all over the rug."

"It's fine. I can—oof!" Fleck uses his magic, and Potter's coat attempts to remove itself. "_Thanks_ Fleck."

"So dinner was good then?"

"A real treat if you like the sound of hens clucking." He drops into the wingback chair across from me.

"What were they clucking about?" I rub my chin, the stubble prickling my fingers.

"The usual," he replies. I eye him curiously. "Yes Malfoy, you came up."

"And?"

"And...They all agreed you're a cad. A devilishly handsome one," he said with an eye roll, "And like good friends, we all told Hermione she'd be wise to keep her distance from you."

I nod silently. All true things I suppose, but it still stings a little.

"But I didn't get the feeling she was going to listen," he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. "She said '_it's not like that_.' Which is a lie - we all know it."

"She's right, its not like that." _There's definitely something different about it all._ "Whatever that means."

"She didn't seem surprised by anything they said."

"She already knows everything worth knowing."

"Everything, huh."

"Yes Potter. I only keep secrets from people I'm trying to deceive." I stare into my glass of firewhiskey, feeling uncomfortable. "The woman asks a million questions. Invasive questions. If I don't give her the answer she wants she just asks the same thing differently until I'm word vomiting."

He chuckles. "That's her."

"You're not as concerned as Gin." I study him, still not quite understanding it. "I thought you'd be the protective one."

"I know Hermione. I've been watching her fend off men for the better part of my life. She doesn't need a protector. Typically...they do."

Everything he's ever said of Granger swirls around in my mind for a second, and then the pieces click together. She is his protector, not the other way around. Hermione had spent so many years saving Potter's arse that he convinced himself she was invincible. Infallible perhaps. I wonder how Ginny feels about that.

"So what's got Ginny's knickers in a twist? She was fucking furious with both of us the other day."

"A lot of things," he replies. "She knows how you are." This time I don't think he's referencing how I toss women aside, but rather how I treat them _while_ I'm with them.

I suppose I've overshared a few times, but even when they act appalled, they listen raptly.  
_  
__"You held her down and did what?'_

_ "I didn't even know that was a thing.'_

"And she's been thinking of Ron a lot since Hermione returned. He would be furious if the two of you-" he shifted. I want to laugh sometimes at what a prude he is.

"Ron's not here. Who gives a fuck what he would think."

"Ginny does, and don't be an arse about it. She's got it in her mind that she needs to do what he would want."

"Fine. I get it." I refill my glass of firewhiskey and pass him the bottle. "There's something else. She's pissed off at you too."

He shrugs and summons a glass.

"Potter."

"If you repeat this I'll make you regret it." He looks deadly serious, so instead of giving him a hard time, I nod.

"She's never said it, but... she's a bit..." he sets his glass down, rubs his face with both hands and groans. "It started with that Golden trio business. It always drove her crazy. Her brother, her husband, and... Hermione."

Well fuck. She _is_ jealous.

"That would piss me off too," I reply.

He continues, "And now Hermione's returned and you, her new best friend, are falling all over yourself."

"I'm not-"

"Yes you are. And I've been spending less time with Ginny too. She got used to having us to herself is all." He pours his firewhiskey. "She doesn't blame Hermione. They're good friends. She blames us for being...idiot men."

"We are that." Real fucking idiots to let an incredible witch like Ginny feel unimportant. When I dropped by earlier, I didn't even say hello to her.

"So you and Granger. Did you two ever..."

"No."

I don't quite believe him so I give him a half-grin and make a clicking sound. "You lived together for how long...and you're saying you never-"

"We _didn't_," he interrupts before I can suggest an intimate act, and the awkward look he wears tells me that he's honest. I don't entirely understand it. I've never had a completely platonic female friend until Ginny, and I'm sure it's only because she is happily married. If she weren't I would definitely... _Oh_, _don't fucking think it Draco_._ You're such a prick._

"Honestly, " he continues, looking down into his glass of firewhiskey, "Hermione and I were probably the last two virgins at Hogwarts. It's depressing really."

I chuckle. "And the Weasleys?" His scowl is all the answer I need. "Wait, wait, so you mean the two of them were off shagging other people while you and Granger were-"

"It's not that simple. But...yes." Ouch. He seems properly annoyed by it. Astoria was as well, though she only said it once or twice in all the years we were together. "So...on that note, if Hermione wants to have a dalliance with you or anyone else, I'm not going to judge her."

"You sound a bit like _you_ want to have a dalliance," I say, raising my glass toward him.

"God, no! I'd never do that to Ginny."

"For fucks sake Potter. Grow a pair and ask her for a threesome. Life is short."

"She would murder me, Malfoy. I'd never ask her that."

"Don't be so sure. The two of us check out women together all the time. I wouldn't be surprised if-"

"Knock it off. I'm not discussing this with you."

"You're missing out mate."

"And see, this is the other reason she doesn't want you around Hermione. You're a bad influence."

"Pfft." I wave him off, but I know he's right. Corrupting Gryffindors has become a favourite pastime of mine. But I don't quite feel the same about Granger. If I wanted to corrupt her I could have done it twice over, but instead I keep thinking about her _feelings_ and considering what's _best for her._ What the fuck is wrong with me.

"She's a bit different," I say after a minute, dodging his eyes. "This whole thing is sort of... fucking with my head."

"I figured that out," he replies. "It's not like you to act all skittish around a woman."

"I haven't been skittish."

"And you've been interrogating me about her for more than a year."

"I haven't," I protest quickly, but just as the words leave my mouth I know it's a lie.

He studies me with an odd look on his face. "Better not fall for her Malfoy."

My eyes widen. "I'm not—You can't fall for a witch in a month," I scoff.

"You can if you were already halfway there."

Fuck my life. This cannot be right.

"You want to know what I think?" He asks.

"Not especially, no."

"Well I'm going to say it anyway, because I think you need to hear it." He picks up the decanter and refills my glass, I assume because I'm about to need a stiff drink. "You're summoning your own karma. You're about to be on the receiving end of the old fuck and flee, and she's going to rip you to shreds."

I rub my hand down my face. It feels a bit like I've landed in an alternate reality. Do I really have to say this aloud?

"Appreciate your concern and all, but it's misplaced. I'm not falling for her."

I'm not.

* * *

When I arrive at the Potters the next day, it's mid-afternoon and Granger's on the sofa in her usual place engaging in her usual activity. I've never met a single person who read as much as she.

It's the white woven dress that sets this vision apart from the others - short sleeves with bows on them, buttons down the front. It occurs to me that she doesn't often wear light colors, but the white compliments her golden skin beautifully. She looks angelic, sprawled out in the afternoon sun.

"Ginny's at work until 5 today," she says without looking up.

"Good. I didn't come to see Ginny." And I feel a little guilty for it after my talk with Potter.

She smiles, still looking at the pages of her book, and bends her outstretched legs to make room for me, cautious to keep the skirt of her dress tucked around her thighs. I take the seat she offers.

"So how was dinner with Parvati?" I ask, not really wanting to know anything more than whether Granger's thoughts on me had changed.

"Unsurprising. Plenty of gossip and very little substance." She looks up from her book and says softly, "I wish you'd have stayed to save me from it."

I smile. "You should've come to the Manor with Potter."

Her eyes widen and she says bitterly, "He told us there was a work emergency!"

Hilarious.

"The post was from me. We do that for one another sometimes, just in case the other requires a rescue. Seems he couldn't take the three of you clucking like hens."

"I wasn't-" she stops short and folds her arms. "Fine, they may have dragged me down with them a bit."

The words Potter said to me last night remain at the forefront of my mind. As she continues reading her book, I mull them over again and decide that, yes, they are a load of shite. Mostly. Probably. Fuck.

"Read to me," I say with a smile, my elbow resting on the back of the sofa. I want to hear her say F words again. She shifts her legs and smooths down her skirt.

"I don't think it's your type of book."

"What is it, a romance novel?"

"Yes."

I raise a brow at her.

"Not that kind, Malfoy."

"Too bad. Could have been fun," I say with a grin. "Read it anyway. Worst case, I take a much needed nap."

"Trouble sleeping?"

I smile and our eyes meet. "Yes. A bit restless." I don't want her thinking I've been spending my evenings with another woman, so I add, "I've had a lot on my mind."

_Like you, you tempting little witch._

She settles back and looks at me hesitantly, then after a moment she begins, "Valancy... did not sleep that night." She glances up and quickly back down at the page. "She lay awake all through the long dark, hours-thinking-thinking. She made a discovery that surprised her: she, who had been afraid of almost everything in life, was not afraid of death. It did not seem in the least terrible to her. And she need not now be afraid of anything else. Why had she been afraid of things?"

While I listen, my eyes wander over her form. The curls that drape over her shoulders, the vee of her neckline, bare feet with red polish. Her delicate features are expressive as she pronunciates each word.

She makes it through two pages before I cave into temptation and touch her ankle.

"...a-and definitely made up her mind that she would not tell anybody. She had always been told, ever since she could remember, that she must hide her f-feelings." she trails off, distracted by my touch.

"Keep reading," I tell her quietly.

After a few seconds, she complies.

"It is not ladylike to have feelings," Cousin Stickles had once told her disapprovingly. Well, she would hide them with a vengeance..."

I lift her ankles and lay her legs across my lap, grazing my hands over her calves.

When I make it to the back of her knee, she stutters over her words and then stops, biting on her bottom lip while my fingertips circle over her skin. It's so quiet I can hear her breathing. After a few seconds pass, she continues once more.

"...I've never had one wholly happy hour in my life-not one," she thought. "I've just been a colourless nonentity. I remember reading somewhere once that there is an hour in which a woman might be happy all her life if she could but find it. I've never found my hour-never, never. And I never will now. If I could only have had that hour I'd be willing to die..."

I explore her calves and lower thighs with flat, broad strokes of my hand enjoying the feel of her skin and this new permission I have to touch it. Maybe I'm overstepping, doing an intimate thing when we haven't established any clear limits, but she seems to be enjoying it. With each passing sentence she becomes a bit more comfortable. Enough to scoot down and arch her knees over my lap; enough to rest her head back on the throw pillow; enough to let her dress fall freely. One is knee is bent more than the other, and with her thighs pressed together and the skirt of her dress riding up, its an unbearably sexy sight. I'm aroused and I'm sure she knows it. She positioned her legs a very intentional way.

When I put my hand between her closed knees and move upward her voice lilts, pauses, then continues in a rush of whispered words. I stop short of that crevice at the top of her thighs and look upward for signs of reservation.

Her eyes flutter closed as I slip my hand beneath the fabric.

My fingers are slick against her, moving in small but deliberate circles, meant to give her exquisite pleasure.

The book clatters to the floor.

God I want to be inside of her.

It's been a long time since I've felt an ache quite like this, like only her touch can satiate my desire.

The afternoon sunlight peeks through the clouds and casts a warm glow on her golden skin, her white dress. The sun itself is testament to how different she is to me; the time I spend with women is almost exclusively nocturnal.

Her lips are parted and brow furrowed just slightly, and if someone saw her like this, without knowing where my hand was and what it was doing to her, they might think she was in the middle of a confusing dream. I move my thumb and my fingertips in unison and her expression becomes more severe. She whimpers and rolls her hips (those hips) but the sound halts abruptly, caught on a breath. She looks at me.

I don't know who moves first, but we both gravitate toward one another and meet in the middle. Our kiss is deep, desperate, agonizingly sensual. I pull at the buttons of her dress (she wore it for me, I know she did), and when I've made it through the first three I impatiently tug at her sleeve and expose her breast, covered in white lace. I close my hand over it.

For a delicious minute she's rolling her hips against me in a carnal sort of rhythm and I'm hovering above her countering every movement, caught in a dance that is so reminiscent of the act itself that it leaves no room to question how fucking excellent we would be together. I lose myself in it; in the feel of her under me, writhing and tugging at my robes, our lips and tongues moving with urgency, my breath quickening to match hers. I drop my head to her breast and suck the stiff peak into my mouth, and then do the same with the other.

And because I feel myself losing control, I feel where this is headed, I stop for a second, kneeling between her legs and looking down, her deep caramel eyes drawing me into her pleasure. I can't tell if she wants this or if she's caught up in the moment and I don't remember why I care anymore. If it were any other woman I'd assume they were all in the moment they rolled their fucking hips.

But Granger is different. I can't stomach the idea of her hating me, like Parvati and countless other women. I can't stand the thought of her regretting me.

But I also can't stand the idea of not taking her right fucking now.

I drop my knees to the floor and kiss the inside of her thigh. The rise and fall of her chest is faster all of a sudden, and she props herself on her elbow to meet my eyes. I'm frozen by the view my perspective offers. Half clothed, legs spread, hair tousled, breasts spilling out of her pretty white dress. She's a very beautiful woman.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask her.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Not yet."

It means there may be a stop, but it isn't this moment and that's good enough.

And then my face is nuzzled shamelessly between her legs, and I'm kissing, flicking, swirling, letting my tongue give her the all the pleasures my fingers cannot, letting my fingers give her all the pleasures my tongue cannot.

Fuck. I love the sounds she makes, the way she moves and arches, the way her fingernails drag through my hair, the way she responds to me with her entire body.

Sometime after I _almost_ let her come (she begs so prettily), her hand is on her abdomen, fisting into her bunched up dress. Both my tongue and my finger are circling and curling, and my eyes are drawn upward to that trembling hand, imagining what it would feel like wrapped around my cock. Would it fit around me? Would it tremble as it was right then? Fuck.

Before I think it through I reach up and lace our fingers together.

I know instantly I shouldn't have done it, because I'm not thinking about what her hand would feel like on my cock anymore. Her hand belongs in mine and I never want to let go. And then, as if that was the single touch she needed to send her to the edge, she presses her head back into the pillow and cries softly, "oh...god..."

I keep moving with barely there circles, and then she squeezes my hand in hers, breath heavy, thighs gripping my head. _She's on the precipice and I'm barely even trying._

She's coming.

Quivering. Whimpering. Fluttering.

Coming.

_Fuck._

She's fucking coming.

And its so exquisite I think, if I could stay trapped in this exact moment long enough, watching these waves wash over her, hearing her, feeling her, I could be right there with her without moving an inch.

But time doesn't pause for anyone. It steals our most precious moments and nothing is spared from it. _Nothing_. First...she'll recover from this temporary bliss, then...she'll let go of my hand and continue her about day, reading books and eating dinner with the Potters, then...she'll leave for Australia and it will be the end of us.

And then we all die.

Alone.

The bitter end.

Fuck.

She's catching her breath and I'm straightening her skirt when I realise Potter was right. I'm aiming for a broken heart. I'm summoning my own fucked up punishment, asking her to do to me what I've done to so many women. Use me, Granger. Fuck me or not, do as you please. Act like you care. And then... go. And let me rot.

I get up and I sit on the sofa beside her, trying hard not to look like my heart was just ripped out because that's very much how I feel. I've been seduced by her agony, drawn in by her suffering and the vain hope that somehow I might be the one to relieve it. My hand fists in my hair, tugging me back to reality. Can I really let this continue now that I've acknowledged my fate?

She surprises me with a kiss, and I know the answer is...yes. _Fuck yes._ I will let this continue for as long as I can.

* * *

A/N: The book excerpts are from The Blue Castle by Lucy Maude Montgomery. It's one of my favorites (and there's a free version online somewhere).

Thank you all for reading, and for those of you who have left reviews, you made my day!


	8. Chapter 8

I can tell from her languid kisses that she's sated. Appreciative. I tangle my hand in her hair and try to keep my own desperation and raw fucking need at bay, but with her lips and her hands on me, all I can think about is throwing her down on that pillow and burying myself inside her.

Fast.

Hard.

Her gentle tongue swipes and curls against mine, coaxing me to abandon my carefully held control. Her hands roam over me freely and I think, is this the way it happens?

Fuck. The Potters will be home soon. I pull back and hold her cheeks in my hands, and I let my eyes linger on her lips for a moment before I look at the clock above the mantle. They'll be here in under an hour. It's not a smart risk, even for such a great reward.

"Come home with me," I whisper. This is the first time I can recall saying those exact words, but the yacht seems like a disastrous idea.

"Draco..."

Has she used my given name before? It sounds foreign and familiar, all at once.

I drag my lips across hers. "We're running out of time."

In more ways than one.

"I can't. Harry and I have plans soon. And...and..."

_And she still isn't sure what she wants._

Fuck my life.

I fist my hands in my hair and drop my head back on the sofa cushion. Pull it together Draco.

Before I have the chance to take my own advice, she's placing sweet kisses on my neck, her hand is moving down my side. I'm excruciatingly aware that her knickers are in my pocket and her arse is bare beneath that dress. I imagine her hands on my bare flesh and make a quiet sound in the back of my throat. _I can't fucking take it_.

"Self-restraint," I say as I get to my feet, "is a finite resource."

She meets my eyes, her brow furrowed and dress hanging down around her elbows. Her bare shoulders are enticing, the white lace of her bra, beautiful torture. I am so fucking hard my cock is pulsing somewhat uncomfortably, and I think being turned on for an hour straight is starting to fuck with my mind. That Slytherin part of my brain is trying to think of ways to convince her and manipulate her into doing what I want, and I know I'll regret it later if I do that. I lean down and cup her cheeks in my hands, one last kiss to hold me over until she's certain what she wants. I like kissing her at this angle, with her on her knees in front of me. It's a wicked sort of indulgence, and I feel myself sinking into her lips, losing myself to desire.

I break the kiss with a deep breath, and then I stand. She kisses my palm and it feels fucking amazing. The spark travels up my arm and I shiver.

Firewhiskey. I need a lot of it.

Without further hesitation I go to the kitchen and fetch a glass, not sure if I want her to stay in the living room and far away from me, or if I want her to seek me out so I can give into my tempting thoughts.

By the time the first gulp of burning liquid hits my throat, she seeks me out. I feel her presence in the doorway before I see her.

I'm not keen on turning around, but I do it anyway because I want to know what the hell is going on in her pretty little head. I've met my share of women who liked to tease, but she is fucking killing me.

She's pulled up her dress around her shoulders, but it's still partially unbuttoned as she walks toward me. My eyes are drawn down to her legs, and then her bare feet. Her painted toenails. The way she walks is delicate and feminine. I imagine her walking toward my bed and climbing in.

Fuck.

With renewed resolve, I lean against the counter and take another drink, watching from the top of my glass as she stops in front of me.

_Too close._

Her hand reaches into my pocket and I groan, all the progress I've made thrown directly out the window.

"I hope you didn't think I was going to let you keep these," she says as she draws out her white lacy knickers.

Saucy witch.

"A man can hope," I reply with a smile.

She leans against the table and I watch her put her feet through the holes, her curls hanging over her head for a moment before she pulls her knickers up around her hips. It feels intimate, watching her straighten the waistband and then smooth down the skirt of her dress.

Fuck, she is sexy.

"I'm going to meet Harry at the office. We're picking up Ginny's Christmas present, but we'll be back in time for dinner." She looks at me while she buttons her dress. My eyes dart downward and back up to her eyes. "Will you still be here?"

I turn my glass around in my hand. "Do you want me to be?"

"Yes." The way she glances at my mouth makes my heart flutter.

* * *

Two minutes later, I have my back flat against the wall in Ginny's mint green guest lavatory, looking across the small room at a bathtub that's literally a quarter the size of my own. How the fuck could anyone bathe comfortably in that thing?

There's a part of me that thinks I should go find another woman and get Granger the fuck off my mind, but I know it won't suffice. It's like wanting to go to an exotic tropical island and ending up in Antarctica.

I can still taste her on my lips, feel her nails in my hair, her hips rolling against mine.

That fucking kiss on the palm of my hand.

When I shut my eyes, head falling back against the wall, I see her in white lace.

My hand moves faster.

Everything tightens. My brow. My shoulders. My legs.

And then everything in between.

* * *

"Have you shagged her?" Ginny asks with a stern look, arms crossed over her chest as the pot of gravy on the stove beside her stirs itself. This conversation feels oh so familiar, and it's almost always followed by a scolding, which I've almost always earned.

"Not yet." Those two words are ringing in my mind. She's said them twice.

"But not for lack of trying," she replies.

I groan and rub my hand down my face. It's hard to not tell Ginny things when she's exactly the person I need to talk some sense into me.

"I'd really like to be talking to my best friend about this and not hers."

"I can't be two different people, Draco." She's put me in a corner. I want to answer honestly and I can't do that if she's going to murder me for it. After a moment of silence, her expression softens as she understands my quandry. "But please, speak freely."

There's freely, and there's shoving my foot directly into my mouth. Weighing my words isn't working because every alternative I play out will get me into a different kind of trouble.

So foot, meet mouth.

"I could have and I didn't." She flinches a little and then schools her features. "All she needed was a nudge, and I'm _a bit of an expert_ on nudges."

"Are we still talking about Hogsmeade?" she says with a weary look.

This is the part where I get my arse in trouble. "No."

...The silence is worrisome.

"_Nudges_." She waves her wand toward the stove and the steaming roast ascends toward the cooling rack. It's quite dangerous to have a serious conversation with Ginny while she's cooking. I store that away for future reference. "You might as well call it what it is. _Seduction_."

The pan drops an inch with a 'clang'.

"It doesn't matter. _I didn't seduce her,_ did I." I say defensively.

"No? Not even a little bit?"

The word no is on the tip of my tongue, but it won't come out. Fuck. Did I? Just because it wasn't a proper shag doesn't mean I didn't lure her into it. Both occasions, I initiated the contact and didn't relent until she relaxed and gave into my advances. Even the night at Hogsmeade, which she blamed herself for, I flirted. And then I put my arm around her.

And _she_ apologized to _me_ for what happened next.

I drop my head into my hand. That's a sure sign that I've played a mind game. Are they so fucking natural to me that I don't even see them anymore?

"You don't want to be to her what Pugsy was to you."

"Pansy was," my stomach clenches into a knot, "completely different-"

"Not really," she interrupts. "Someone previously off limits makes themselves available at just the right time, offering _comfort_." Damn. It stings in a way that her words usually don't. "She doesn't need it. _Not from you, of all bloody people_."

"What exactly does that mean, Ginevra?"

"How many women have you shagged and dumped this year?"

A lot, but I won't give her the satisfaction of saying it.

"Does it matter? She's _leaving_."

"And that would make it all so much easier for you, wouldn't it? You get what you want without having to deal with the difficult part." She puts her hands on the table in front of me. "But what happens if she decides to stay?"

"I hope she does," I reply with a thick voice.

"You hope she-" She appears agitated, and I think for whatever reason I might need to have my wand ready for defensive purposes. "Are you playing some sort of game, trying to tell me what you think I want to hear?"

"No."

I mean I know I'm a prick, but that would be exceptionally low.

"You want her to..."

"_Stay_."

"-so you can-"

"-I don't fucking know." I say quietly, running a hand through my hair. It was a bad idea to have this conversation with Gin. She sees right fucking through me. I see a flash of concern before she turns toward the counter, pretending to do something important.

And the worst part, I don't think she gives the slightest fuck about my predicament.

* * *

Something about the conversation leaves me feeling like I don't want to be there with Ginny. And I don't want to look Granger in the eye because I've been ignoring the obvious. She isn't ready. I've been tempting her, clouding her perspective with lust, not taking advantage per se, but slowly wearing her down all the same.

So with that thought nagging at the edge of my mind, I make an excuse for why I need to head out early and I go to the Leaky.

When I arrive, Ana Cavanaugh, aka _Drink-in-the-face_, is in the corner booth with three other women and I very nearly turn around and walk the fuck out, but she's already seen me and I don't want to tuck tail and run, so I decide to sit at the bar and have a single drink.

I'm on my third glass of firewhiskey and Ana Drink-in-the-face is still glaring at me from the corner when Theo Nott walks in. Because that's just the kind of fucked up day I'm having. We don't talk anymore and I prefer to keep it that way, because we're both still harboring several old grudges against one another.

I should've stuck to one fucking drink.

"Draco, old mate. It's been awhile," he says. Theo's a very tall and slender man, and it possible he's gotten even thinner since I saw him last. There's a little part of me that misses him, or rather him as he was a decade ago, but I won't show it.

"Theo," I reply in a dispassionate tone.

"Did the Potters finally grow tired of you?" He smacks my shoulder and it rests there for a moment, the gesture holding an insult. "Or did you shag his wifey and make a run for it."

Fuck. I earned that one.

Once he understands that I'm not going to rise to his barb, he continues on, pushing his luck. "You know, I saw Potter earlier today with _Hermione Granger-Weasley_. I thought she had left for good, no?"

I take a drink and lick my teeth. "She's back for a short visit."

"Ah, well, as long as she's not trying to reclaim her post as Minister. One more year of that and she'd have had _us_ serving the _house elves_."

The old man sitting to the left of me laughs because Theo is so fucking hilarious.

"I'd say she was a fair bit better than the prick we have today," I reply.

"Oh McAdams? He's going to turn things around for us, just wait and see." He gives a wink. "Almost sad why Granger resigned, but... worked out just fine for the good people of Wizarding Britain."

I feel the irritation welling up, and I'm not so good at hiding it when I'm drunk. His lip twitches upward in a smile.

"And one less Weasley is never a bad thing."

Irritation gives way to white-hot anger, and I grip my glass tightly as I bring it to my lips and down the last of the liquid.

Time to leave.

"And what is this I hear about your Scorpius dating Rose Weasley? What a shame, sullying himself with the mudblood spawn."

_You've got to be fucking kidding me._

I tap my wand without removing it from my pocket, and Theo's legs fly out from under him. The people on either side of the bar snicker as he falls backward on his scrawny arse.

Before he hits the ground, my stool has already turned to rubber, and I curse as I land beside him. The snickering grows louder.

And then...chaos ensues.

Unfortunately for me, one of the ladies with Ana Drink-Face is an off duty Auror who happens to dislike me on principle.

An hour later, I'm at the Auror station.

Three hours later...

_Still fucking there._ Biting my cuticles and staring at a goddamn brick wall. The least they could have done was let me remain drunk for the duration. It would have made it all a bit less humiliating. Picking a fight was a rather childish move, but anger and intoxication were never my best combination. And Theo wasn't just being a prick, he was also reminding me what a prick I used to be and I can't fucking handle the thought that I'd have said the same words at another time in my life.

How did this day get so far off track?

"You're lucky you're one of Tom's best customers," Potter says as he finally fucking retrieves me from the holding cell.

"He's not pressing charges then?"

"We had a talk," he replies quietly as he walks me out, a hand wrapped firmly around my arm so he looks like the head of the DMLE escorting a known ex-death eater, rather than two chums who take dinner together daily.

"You're a very useful friend, Potter."

"Yes well, I wouldn't have saved your arse if Nott hadn't completely deserved it. I read all the statements."

We walk out to the front desk and he hands me my release papers. "Do I need to ask what you were doing at the Leaky?"

Fuck. Why was I there again?

I wasn't picking up women. I wasn't, but I know he thinks it.

"I didn't want to be at the manor or the cottage. It sounded like the next best place."

He looks at me a bit more seriously, trying to figure out, for the hundredth time, if I'm worth all the trouble. I hate that look.

"Alright. But if you can't manage to keep it to one woman at a time, it would be best for you to keep your distance. You know, for a few weeks."

Until Granger leaves.

I have a dozen excuses lined up, but I don't say any of them.

"Thanks again, Potter."

He nods.

* * *

When I get back to the manor, there's a letter from Scorpius waiting for me. I open it, hoping for a bright spot in a fucked up day, but by the end, it's just doubly fucked up.

He wants to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas.

* * *

The next day passes in a blur because I spend most of it drunk off my arse.

There's a sinking feeling in my stomach when I let myself get too sober, and it tells me I've fucked up royally... on so many fronts.

I'm avoiding those thoughts cautiously, distracting myself with alcohol, books, pornography, anything at all.

_Just don't fucking think, Draco._

_Astoria. Scorpius. Theo. Pansy. Lucius. Narcissa. Astoria._

_Astoria._

My past is threatening to eat me alive. It wasn't always pleasant, but it was a good life. A full life.

And it's gone. Because when she died, I torched the remnants. I've lost it all except Scorpius.

_Scorpius, who doesn't want to come home._

_He's at school dealing with little pricks like Theo's son. Pricks like I used to be. What must he be going through?_

_He'll never tell me._

_I'm in handcuffs on the front page of The Daily Prophet._

_He's seen it. He's surely ashamed. Again._

_Ignore it. Drown it in firewhiskey. Stop fucking thinking, Draco._

_I'm borderline obsessed with Hermione Granger, of all the fucking witches in the world._

_And I've halfway seduced her into making an egregious error._

_The Potters are growing tired of me._

_My time is nearly up._

_They'll realize soon._

_And death is right around the fucking corner._

_Come quickly._

* * *

I'm passed out on the sofa in the library when Ginny arrives and ennervates me.

I bolt up with a start.

"Fucking fuck, Gin."

"Put your clothes on." She tosses a robe my direction and I look down at myself, shirtless, dark mark showing.

Because I needed one more reason to hate my life.

She pretends not to notice it as I slip my robe over my shoulders.

"Draco you can't just drink yourself into a coma when life gets difficult."

Yes, I've heard this lecture a few times. And I know each time I was better off having listened to her, but I don't fucking want to today.

I rub my hand down my face.

"Even Fleck is worried about you," she says.

I lift my head to look at her with a confused expression.

"Fleck summoned you?"

He hates her.

"Yes. He said you hadn't ingested anything but firewhiskey in two days."

"Two?"

No, it's been one day.

I stand and look at the clock. The calendar.

_Fuck_.

I'm rubbing the back of my neck, and she's standing with her arms folded over her chest, looking concerned and a little cross.

"You have got to learn how to deal with your feelings in a healthier way. Scorpius will be home in two weeks and he doesn't need to see you like this."

I think about telling her he's not coming home, but I decide against it. Because there was more in his letter that she'll hear about soon enough.

"What is it with you Potters and your feelings. Maybe I just needed a day or two off from my life. You know, because it's usually a simple one, and the last week has been really fucking complicated."

"Your life," she gestured around to my home, "is never simple. What's complicated are your feelings."

The world spins, so I sit back down on the sofa and glare up at her.

"You've been thinking about Astoria," she says.

My stomach clenches and I look away. The last time I spiraled out, Astoria was the reason. This time, she's one of many.

"And I'm sure it didn't help that I brought up Pansy. I'm sorry for it."

I nod, because she did sort of throw that in my face.

"That's why you went to the Leaky."

I'm careful not to react. I do hope she hasn't been blaming herself for my mistakes.

She sits beside me on the sofa, facing forward toward the long and narrow windows. I feel more comfortable without her looking down at me.

"I was wrong," she says quietly.

"You weren't very."

"Yes I was."

Was she? Because she planted the idea and now that I'm convinced she's right, all of a sudden she says she's wrong. That's a bloody witch for you.

"Hermione is an adult. And Ron's been gone a long while." She takes a breath and continues, "And you understand what she's going through in a way we don't. Just like you two will never fully understand what I've lost." She looks like the words are painful to say, and any response I have feels inadequate, so I remain silent.

She shakes her head, quick and sharp, as though snapping herself out of her misery.

"I've no right to comment on it further. Now come over and eat some dinner. You're going to wither away living on firewhiskey."

I nod silently. I don't want to be here anymore. I'm not sure if I want to be anywhere. But staying close to Gin, my life raft, seems like a good choice.


	9. Chapter 9

The Potter's cottage is warm and familiar, but it doesn't bring the same comfort I've come to expect. There's this aching feeling in my chest that tells me my time here is almost up, not because of Granger but because eventually they'll realise that _I cannot be fixed_. They'll grow tired of my shit, it's just a matter of time.

Fuck, my head is a mess. I took a pepper up and I'm thinking clearly, but it did nothing for the knot in my stomach that tells me I am on the wrong path. I've made a grave mistake somewhere, perhaps several, and the course I'm now on is not going to right itself.

While I've been drinking myself into a stupor, they've all been decorating for Christmas. Every room is coated in holly and tinsel, and it reminds me how different we are. Even though the Potters are grieving, they have each other and it makes all the difference. They hold each other to exceptionally high standards. If one falls, the other is there to lift them and set them back on the right path.

I've spent years deceiving myself into thinking I didn't want that, didn't need it, couldn't bring myself to fill that gaping hole in my life that Astoria left behind.

Do I want love?

Fuck.

Do I?

I told myself never again.

I look at Granger sitting across from me. I look at the Potters and all they've built together. It would fucking figure, that the first time I think I might want something real, it would be with a woman who lives on another continent. Who could never love me after all I've done. And even if she could, _she's not ready_.

I hear Ginny's voice in my head. _She doesn't need it. Not from you of all bloody people._

It's written all over Granger's face, that slightly vacant expression, the way her eyes flicker up to the photo on the nearby shelf of Ginny and her brothers, where Ron is grinning like an idiot.

Dead or not, he still has her heart. And Astoria has mine.

I'm much more quiet than usual as we eat Ginny's fried turkey legs, which are greasy-messy-heaven, but when I do speak it's with levity because I don't want Granger and Potter to know what Ginny knows, that I'm a pathetic fucking wreck of a man. I don't often let myself slip into this vat of self-loathing, and I'm determined to snap the fuck out of it.

So I embrace the torment and make small talk with her, without allowing myself to admire her conservative but flattering gray dress, without indulging in a fantasy of our next moment alone, without planning and strategising. _I will not pursue her further._

And then… I make her laugh, and it's so fucking sincere, the way she doubles over and claps her hands, her eyes sparkling as though for a sliver in time she's forgotten all her woes… It makes me second guess everything.

"I'll make shepherd's pie tomorrow night," Ginny says as Granger gathers our empty plates.

"I won't be able to make it." I wipe my greasy fingers on my cloth napkin again, wondering if I've made the right choice. _Fuck, be decisive, Draco_. "I'll be gone for a few days."

Ginny's brow creases and rises, and I can hear her voice in my head saying, _"Are you shitting me? Planning another bender already?"_

"I'm going out to the yacht to clear my head," I say to her specifically, daring her to challenge it. The clanking of dishes behind me stops abruptly, and I imagine Granger standing still and silent. Listening. Wondering what it means. "Just me and Fleck on the open ocean."

And an old project I've been long meaning to revisit.

Ginny purses her lips. Our staring contest continues for several more seconds and apparently makes Granger and Potter uncomfortable, because they both vacate the room like the next wizarding war is upon us.

"Summon Fleck," Ginny says sharply when we're alone.

My eyes narrow. "Why...?"

"Just do it."

I don't like where this is headed. Does she truly think I'd lie about this? "Blasted woman. What do you want with my elf?"

"_Malfoy_." Her eyes wrinkle with concern, and it's touching that she cares one way or the other, so I comply.

"Fucking fine. _Fleck_."

My grumpy old house elf arrives with a pop, his slouched back stretching upward so he's at his full height, which is still really fucking short, even by elf standards.

"Fleck, Master Draco says he's going to the yacht?"

Fleck looks at me for permission to speak and I throw up a hand in defeat.

"Master's bag is packed. The portkey is ready," he replies in his croaky and derisive old voice.

Ginny casts a silencing charm on the room, and it does nothing to ease my mind.

"When you get there, Fleck," Ginny flashes me a look, "I want you to rid the boat of alcohol."

My stomach drops, followed by a sharp rise in irritation. "For fuck's sake, Ginny! I'm an _adult_."

She stands up with that fiery look in her eye, and I do the same because I don't want her looking down on me.

"You got in a bar fight, got _arrested_, and then drank yourself half to death. Does that sound like the behaviour of a grown man to you?"

"I had a bad week!"

"Then go to the yacht and clear your damn head. But don't go out there and get drunk. Don't sit around feeling sorry for yourself like you have been. And for god's sake, don't fall off the side of the boat and die. Poor Fleck shouldn't have to worry about your survival!"

"Fuck!" I run my hands through my hair, angry and really goddamn tired of her looking at me like that. "Do as she says Fleck," I scowl down at my house elf, whose usual unaffected and almost bored expression is replaced by something fearful and anxious. The last thing I need is for my elf to drop dead of a heart attack.

"Are there any other mind-altering substances on board?" She asks the elf.

"Potions 246 and 327." I scratch my chin. Forgot about those. "And cannabis."

Fuck. _Thanks Fleck_.

"Get rid of it," I bite out. "All of it. And toss the fucking cigarettes for good measure. I'll summon you when I'm ready."

Fleck disappears with another pop, and it's just me and Ginny and that sinking feeling in my stomach.

She walks around the table with a softer expression and I lean back against the counter. I hate that she's seen me at my lowest. I fucking hate it. I don't want her to spend the rest of her life remembering me passed out drunk on a fucking sofa. Part of me wants to obliviate her and be done with it, but if I do that, who would be there to rescue me next time?

No one, because no one else knows what I'm struggling with like the woman in front of me, and I'd never trust another living soul with it.

She leans against the counter beside me.

"It's like you said, it was a bad week," she says quietly. "Things will normal out."

_When Granger leaves_.

"That's the problem Gin. I don't want things to normal out." I scratch my abdomen, hoping it will loosen the knot in my stomach. "I want things I cannot have."

She puts her hand on my arm and squeezes, like she _knows._ Fuck. Does she? Am I so transparent?

"Maybe something good can come of this. Maybe you can..."

_Quit my rubbish. Kick my vices_.

I stand up straight and look down at her, barely holding back my sneer. "I'll never be good enough for you lot."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she replies quietly, more patiently than I expect. "I want you to be happy, Draco. You've been miserable for so long I think you forgot what real happiness feels like."

It's like she's in my fucking head, saying all the things I know to be true and don't want to face.

"If anything is certain, Gin," I take a deep breath, but it only fuels the knot in my stomach. "Time will change things. I will be happy again. And then I will be miserable again. Life will run its course, and then we'll all die. _Happy fucking Christmas._"

I retrieve my wand from my pocket and remove the privacy charm.

"Gotta go." I kiss her temple quickly, ignoring the furrow in her brow that says she's hurt, and then I grab my cloak from behind the door. "I'll be good."

She nods.

—

This pain I feel is nothing new, and yet it's the most poignant emotion I've felt in a long time. It's usually a gnawing at the back of my mind, but today it's right at the forefront, drowning everything else so all I can feel is misery, all I can see is the barren wasteland that is my life.

Looking out at the tall grass beyond the Potters manicured yard and cobblestone pathway just reinforces the thought. I pull out a cigarette and light it, allowing myself to enjoy this tiny pleasure.

_The small things._

The door behind me clicks, and I turn around.

Granger.

The knot in my stomach turns into a flipping sensation, because looking upon her often has that effect.

"You're still here," she says. I can't be certain, but she seems a little relieved. The thought flashes through my mind...Will she be here when I return?

"Sorry I didn't say goodbye." I step toward her as she walks down the path, tightening her cloak around herself.

"Is everything okay?" She asks, looking oddly ethereal in the dimly lit pathway.

I nod very slightly, because I'm only very slightly okay. Mostly, I'm miserable and pathetically desperate to pull her into my arms and shield her from the cold air.

"I hope I haven't..." she shuffles uncomfortably. "You're not leaving because of...

"I'm not leaving because of you," I say quietly. "I'm just... fucking tired of England." I don't like the way my voice cracks. I'm usually better at hiding how I fucking feel but she caught me off guard at a difficult moment.

She is part of the reason I'm leaving, because avoidance is all I can do to keep myself from making a disaster of things. I won't say it. She doesn't need to carry that.

"I understand." She breathes the words out. "I am too."

There's a reason she doesn't live on this continent.

"So, what does one do while lounging on a yacht for a few days?" She asks. A hopeful feeling roots itself in my chest. _Don't fucking do it, Draco_.

Well, I'm not drinking, thanks to Ginny fucking Potter. But regardless what Ginny thinks I wasn't going out there to get drunk and drop off the side of the boat.

"I have some research to keep me occupied."

I realise my error when her face lights up a fraction.

"What kind of research?"

Fuck. I've opened the door to a line of inquiry I am not prepared to answer. I realise I'm doing that thing again, scratching the back of my neck and looking at my feet. She's not going to leave me alone until she knows.

"Curse breaking."

Her face lights up further. "Anything I can help with? I'm quite decent at curse breaking." She seems very proud of her skill, and ready to show it off at a moment's notice should I give her the opportunity. I might smile if I wasn't thinking about all the ways I could use this to my advantage.

Getting Granger alone on a yacht in the middle of the Atlantic for a few days? It feels like the answer to everything, and also... my ruin.

_Don't do it._

_Don't lure her in._

_Don't._

Just be honest and see where the chips fall. She might turn around and walk away if she knows the truth.

"Strictly speaking, the project I'm working on isn't entirely... legal."

Her eyes widen. "Haven't you spent enough time in lockup this week?"

"Well you're the only person who knows anything about it, so if I end up in lockup, I'll know who put me there." I take a last drag of my cigarette and throw it on the ground. Her heel clicks savagely on the stone, snuffing it out.

"Tell me what you're doing and I won't turn you in." She folds her arms across her chest, and it might seem imposing if she wasn't so impossibly cute with her hair whipping around in the wind.

I step forward against my better judgement, bridging the gap between us. "Devious, Granger."

_Don't_.

"The item in question has been in my family for generations," I continue. "I couldn't just get rid of it, so I've been working to break the curse. If I'm successful, it will be an ordinary object. No longer a criminal offense to own it."

She pulls her hair behind her ears, taming the loose curls for a moment. "What type of curse is it?"

I can imagine her spending hours, pouring over research. Naked.

"The kind that makes it illegal to own."

"Deadly?"

"It's killed people, yes. But not since it's been in my family's possession."

"That you know of."

"I'd know."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter, Granger," I say, becoming exasperated. "It's not a danger to anyone out on the ocean."

"Out on the...The yacht isn't docked?"

Fuck all. My silence answers her question.

"It's in international waters isn't it. Evading our jurisdiction."

I smirk. She must be beside herself.

"So, I have to assume your portkey is authorised," she continues. Fucking _sharp_. "What else are you hiding out there?"

I take a step backward, and then another. "Unless you're planning to turn me in to Potter, I'd best be going."

She steps toward me and says, "Take me with you."

Strangely enough, she seems more surprised to hear the words that fell out of her mouth than I am.

Still, my heart skips a beat.

_Yes._

_Yes._

"No." I say it like it's the most ridiculous idea in the world. "I'm not taking the _ex-Minister for Magic_ to the place where I keep _all the shit I'm not supposed to own_."

Damn. Things keep flying out of my mouth that I know are going to intrigue her.

_Don't fucking do it._

"I'm not the Minister anymore," she says like I've just issued her a challenge.

I have.

I did this.

And now I need to fucking _undo_ it. Because I cannot be her big mistake. I do not want her to wake up beside me on my yacht and question why the fuck she let herself be lured in by a lecherous ex-death eater who used to call her a mudblood. Who wanted her dead. Who hated her husband and teased him for being poor. Who almost killed our headmaster. Who watched her be tortured in my drawing room. I'm not sure if she's forgotten who I am or if I've somehow convinced her that I'm a better person. But I'm not.

And I cannot let myself fucking fall for her. To have her and then lose her would be the worst kind of torture, and I told myself I'd never do that again.

But I want her like I've never wanted anyone. Even my Astoria was a slow, subtle build up of adoration. There was no mixed emotion, no confusion, just a clear path that I sauntered along at a leisurely pace until I found myself in love. Happy. This... this is like a fire that's been kindling for decades, waiting for a path of dry brush, a gust of wind strong enough to set my world aflame.

This is madness. Obsession.

It must be that gust that compels my legs to step toward her, my arms to reach, my heart to leap.

"There is nothing in the entire fucking world that I want more than to spend a few days alone in the middle of the ocean with you."

I put my hands on either side of her face and her lips part in surprise. My cold hands tingle with the satisfaction of touching her soft skin.

"But Ginny is right. You need to stay away from me," I whisper. "I am not a good man. Do not let me lure you into something you'll regret."

It's a painful truth, and I know she hears me because she looks like someone just ran her through with a blade.

"I know who you are, Malfoy." Her eyes flicker with anguish. "And I knew what I wanted before I walked out here."

My blood races at the thought. I drop my hands and look up at the cloudy night sky.

_This is a mistake._

_You'll regret it._

But I want to lose myself in her. I'll give it all to know what it feels like to have her in my arms. When I meet her eyes again, it's the beginning and the end.

"Get your things," I say with a low voice. She takes a step backward, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "And try not to get me killed or banished."

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited and reviewed this story! For a few years I was too chicken to post my writing, so every time I get a new alert it's followed quickly by a mushy-gushy feeling. Love love love it!

Huge thank you to my beta christyannb94, who always gives solid advice and feedback. You're the best!


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: smut...smut..._smut_. Finally! If you like pinterest boards, I have one for this fic. Can't post links, but you can search pinterest for "Fanfic - Blue Widow" and it should come up.

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The yacht was a wedding gift from my parents. Long, narrow, and tranquil, it holds all the magical elegance one would expect of a spoiled rich wizard's yacht. An onlooker might have thought it was a wonderful gift, but it was a bit of a slight, because my parents knew Astoria hated boats and I loved them. It was their way of doting on me with no benefit to her. I'm sure they thought it was a plus that I might be out at sea for long stretches of time without her, but I barely ever used it in all the years of my marriage. I had a life I didn't particularly want to escape from.

When we arrive on the sundeck, we're both off kilter, not just from traveling by portkey but also from the abrupt change in climate and slight sway of being out at sea. There's a charm on the vessel to keep it steady, but our bodies can still sense movement and there's no dodging that first minute of acclimation.

Hermione walks forward toward the open black ocean, flat shoes echoing against the wood. She's admirably steady on her feet, and peeks over the edge of the railing at the water below, splashing against the hull. When she looks up at the sky, I follow suit. It's pristine and star studded, a truly rare sight.

"We're near the equator," she observes. "In the Atlantic?"

I'd be impressed if it were another witch, but I expect nothing less than brilliance from Hermione. Although, I really didn't think reading the stars was in her repertoire.

"Yes. A hundred or so miles off the coast of Sierra Leone."

She turns to look at me, at the boat, the interior visible through the windows. The endless black of the sea and the night sky is disrupted by alabaster lanterns glowing within the lounge. It's not very large, but it feels like it, with the clear glass and clean lines.

"It's beautiful."

"It's pretentious. You can say it."

"One doesn't make the other untrue," she replies with a smile.

She was Minister for Magic, so she's no stranger to this lifestyle. While she didn't get rich in public service, I've no doubt she's well off and part of the job entailed rubbing elbows with my sort.

Images of her at galas in designer robes float through my head, dancing with foreign dignitaries, charming them with her beauty and wit. I'd watched her from a distance at many of those functions, always oddly fascinated by how a muggleborn witch could assimilate so well into wizarding society and then challenge convention from within, leaving every Minister before her looking like a buffoon for not overhauling outdated legislation.

"Make yourself at home," I say as I walk into the hull. This is the part where I would take her cloak and offer a tour which ends in the bedroom, but I'm not going to play that game. She's a smart woman, she can find her way around.

Out of sheer habit I walk directly to the small bar, which I already know is dry as fuck, but I'm not all that bitter about it. I've had enough alcohol in the last two days to kill a small person, and I'm damn lucky I have Ginny and Fleck around to snap me the fuck out of it.

From behind the bar, I watch her discover the lounge, the dining area, and peek her head around the privacy wall toward the master suite. When she turns back with pinkened cheeks it takes all my willpower not to laugh.

Fuck she is cute.

She takes off her cloak and sets it across the back of a dining chair, and my eyes are drawn again to her gray dress with its classic and conservative cut, a barely hidden zipper that runs along her spine. Fuck. I'm undressing her with my eyes, anticipation running a course through my limbs.

"This piano." She runs her hand over the length of the antique wood. "It's incredible. Where did it come from?"

I really shouldn't be surprised that Granger, brightest witch of her age, would sense the magic radiating off of my lovely Cecille. That she would find my research project with so little effort is another testament to her talent.

"She's been in my family for a long while."

"She." Granger whispers the word as she touches the keys, sensing what few can. _Life and death_. Her fingers are drawn downward into a familiar melody that she didn't play, and her hand recoils with a yelp.

"The subject of my research..._Cecille Du Parc_."

She exhales audibly, eyes snapping to mine with anxious recognition.

"You've heard of her then," I say with some amusement, walking around the bar toward the piano.

"She was a great composer, wasn't she? Her soul was trapped in her own piano by a dark wizard after she refused to play for him. And then she..."

_Killed him_. Yes, I have the only homicidal piano that's ever existed to my knowledge.

"It was _self-defense_, Granger. I assure you he had it coming."

She scowls. "There were others."

"Two, and they were trying to destroy her. Again, self-defense." I run my hand over Cecille protectively.

Hermione circles the piano, studying her without coming too close.

"She's not so dangerous, unless you're a danger to her. As I said, she's been in my family for a long while and there haven't been any incidents... beyond a broken finger or two."

She snorts a little. "Maybe she likes Malfoy's."

"If she didn't like you, Granger, she wouldn't have greeted you. She doesn't do that very often," I say with a smirk trying very hard to soften her up to Cecille. It isn't working. She's weary of anything remotely dark, so I try a different approach. "She's trapped in there, you know. A beautiful woman who had a family, small children, and more talent than any composer of her age. _Her life was stolen_."

I was right, she does soften at that, her expression changing rapidly to one of sympathy. While everything I said was technically true, it doesn't change the fact that I manipulated her just a little.

I swear, it's like fucking breathing.

"Have you called any curse-breakers?" She asks.

I shake my head no. "She's too valuable. I've been working on it myself in my spare time. No one knows she's in my possession and I'd like to keep it that way."

I lift my wand and summon my books and journals from a nearby shelf, and they fall in a neat stack on the dining table. She studies the spines, and then me and my Cecille. Her overwhelming curiosity and love of research kills the last of her resistance.

She opens to the first marked page, her fingers tracing the words before she even takes a seat.

—

Two hours pass, and she's moved to the lounge, still pouring over my books. She's co-opted one of my journals and is scribbling comments in the margin beside my own observations.

"You've been thorough," she says without lifting her head. "But there's a gap in your notes from 2012 to 2016. Am I missing a journal?"

"No. I gave up for a while. Had another curse to focus on."

She looks up for the first time in nearly an hour, with a pained and regretful expression, but I'm unphased. I've separated my research on Astoria's blood curse from my feelings for my wife. It's just another fucking curse to break.

I summon another journal from my desk, and it drops on the table beside her. "I'd like to solve that mystery as well eventually."

She opens the leather cover and reads the first page, and then her fingers flip quickly through to the last entry. "You're still working on it." Her eyes catch mine, surprised. "How do you test your theories?"

"It was a _blood_ curse."

"You mean you have..."

I wince a little. "Morbid, I know."

"Practical." She reads my sterile notes silently for a moment, and then looks back at me with a curious expression. "Where do you keep the samples?"

I tap my shoe on the floor, gesturing to the room below. "It's not the sort of thing I want Scorpius happening upon."

"What else do you have hidden out here?"

I turn my head left and right, slowly. I'm not going there.

"Malfoy," she says in a warning. "Is it so awful that you wouldn't trust me with it?"

"I trusted you enough to tell you such things exist. Let that be enough." But she won't. I can see that burning curiosity in her eyes and I know she'll never relent. She'll search the place while I'm sleeping.

"I don't go around acquiring dark relics and such, Granger. The few things I've kept have been in my family for generations. I don't want them falling into the wrong hands, and before you say it, _yes the ministry is the wrong hands_. This boat can only be seen or boarded by a Malfoy or with a Malfoy. They're safe out here."

"They're not safe from a Malfoy though, are they? What do you own that you cannot part with?"

"Books. Knowledge. Lost treasures like Cecille."

She sits up a little taller. "Show me."

We sit in silence for a minute, waiting one another out, but the truth is that a small part of me wants her to know. I'm a bit tired of carrying the burdens of eleven generations of Malfoy men, tired of feeling obligated to the past. Tired of knowing things no one else knows and having no one to speak of them with. And I need someone like her to keep me honest, because if she knows of my possessions then I cannot use them, and I never want to fall prey to the lure of dark magic again.

Do I really want to pass these items to Scorpius someday, and would he even fucking want them? I think it's unlikely.

"Tomorrow. In the daylight. If you still want to see them I'll show you."

"Stalling?"

I laugh. "Fleck is probably sleeping below. Let the old sod rest."

"Ahhh. _Fleck_."

Gah. Back to that again. She already interrogated me about whether he was free, _paid_, and I managed to dodge her temporarily.

"Granger, he's ancient. If I tried to free him or pay him not only would he be gravely insulted, he'd probably die on the spot."

She rolls her eyes in disbelief.

I smile in spite of myself. "No I mean it literally Granger!" She scoffs again. "He has a heart condition. Takes potions for it and everything. And maybe," -I raise my index finger- "you should take into account the exorbitant amount of money I spend on keeping him alive. The healer I dragged him to wasn't even sure how to treat him. Most house elves off themselves before they have to be cared for."

She softens up. Again, I know all of her vulnerabilities. "You've taken him to healers?"

It is rather unusual.

"There's no one I trust more than Fleck," I reply. "I used to pull his ears and kick his shins and he still cared for me better than either of my blasted parents. And he won't off himself because he doesn't trust the other elves to take proper care of me and my son. He's defied tradition for us."

I don't even know how the fuck I could grow attached to such a hideous little thing like Fleck, but he's literally the only person-creature-thingy that's ever been there for me so _consistently_. I'm not sure I'd survive a month without him.

I'm not sure I would have survived this week.

"He did seem frail," she says with a concerned look. "What did the healers say?"

"That he has a year to live. And that was three years ago so clearly, they don't know what the fuck they're talking about. I honestly think he might keep on living until I order him not to, which I'll never do."

She settles back against the sofa and studies me like I'm a complicated puzzle, which I am, and even after she returns to her book, to her scribbling, a feeling lingers between us. She thinks I've gone soft, that maybe I'm a decent human being. I'm betting Potter told her the nonsense Theo said and my reaction, and she's questioning who I am and why I'd defend anyone so selflessly. And it's true, _I fucking take care of my own_. Does that make me a good person? Fuck no, because in my experience, good people, people like her, put the needs of the many over the needs of the few. They do kind things for people who aren't them and theirs, and I...do not.

But I won't remind her of that, because it's pointless. She does know who I am. She's seen me at my worst, and she's still here, in the middle of the ocean with me and a giant fucking bed that I imagine we'll make great use of when the time is right.

It's a wonder I've managed to keep my fucking trousers on this long, with her sitting beside me, legs curled up behind her, lovely dress framing her delicate curves.

"You're staring at me," she says quietly without looking up.

"No, I'm observing you."

"Observe anything interesting?" she inquires.

Everything about her is interesting, from the ink smudge on her forehead to the messy chicken scratch she calls handwriting.

"You seem more yourself out here. Like the girl I've always known."

She sighs soundlessly. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good." And it is. Even her silly little flaws seem to add a certain charm. "Give the woman a good research project and she's fucking sixteen again."

"You didn't like me at all when I was sixteen," she says, slightly vexed.

A short and quiet laugh, and then I reply, "I was an idiot." With renewed interest in my book, I turn the page and add in a lower voice, "But I did like observing you."

Now I can feel her eyes on me, watching silently as I try my best to focus on what I'm reading and not the vagrant thoughts that tell me to nudge her in the right direction.

_Toward my bed._

But I'm not pursuing her. She's here, and that's enough. When she's ready, I'll give her anything she wants, but it must be her decision.

"After your trial, you apologized to me. Do you remember it?"

I nod once without looking up. How could I forget?

"I didn't think you were sincere," she says. I feel her searching my face for answers, but I'm cautious not to react. "But... you were a beautiful man, saying beautiful words that I'd wanted to hear for... years. I thought about you for a long while after that."

There's a tension in the air at the mention of our shared history, our darkest times, and I feel a strong urge to diffuse it.

So, I smile without looking up. "Naked?"

"Pfft."

Perhaps I lightened the mood and relieved my own unease, but perhaps the mood wasn't meant to be lightened. Maybe I ought to bask in the discomfort for just a minute and answer her unspoken question.

So, I put myself back in the moment, shocked at how vivid that memory still is. The relief I felt at being free, the embarrassment at being on trial to begin with, the way my mother had ushered me through the crowd while she bore the brunt of the reporters. I was shoveled into the nearest unlocked room to escape the chaos and Granger was behind that door, waiting for Potter to return and tell her the verdict. I had stood frozen, wishing fiercely that my mother had picked _any other door_.

I shove a marker in my book and look up at her, determined to be honest.

"You were... the very last person I wanted to see that day. It was karma I thought, to narrowly escape an Azkaban sentence and then be thrown in a room with you."

She looks up, her eyes betraying her interest, because I'm being brutally honest and that's precisely what she wants. She rests her elbow on the back of the sofa and props her head on her hand, waiting for me to continue.

"I'd spent weeks toiling in regret, waiting to find out my punishment. Wishing I'd done things differently, if only to save myself from whatever torment came next." I should really stop talking. I'm going to give too much away. I always do with her.

"You didn't accept my apology." I proceed, silently challenging her to deny it, but she remains still and silent. "Instead, you told me that you were glad I had my freedom, and you hoped... that I wouldn't squander it on petty hatred. And I knew you didn't believe it even as I said the words, but... my apology was sincere."

She traces her lips with her knuckles, wearing a contemplative look.

"I thought of you for a long while after that." I say, repeating her earlier words, because they're true for me as well. I thought of her for weeks, maybe more, rethinking what I said, wishing I'd said it differently. Chosen better words.

The confession lingers there between us, an uneasiness still festering because even though we are older, I am still that prick who made her life hell, and she is still that girl who I thought had dirty blood and sickening muggle habits.

And with a tense smile she asks, "Naked?"

I give her a lopsided grin because _fuck if I didn't have that coming_.

My eyes settle back on my book.

_Don't fucking think it, Draco._

But I cannot focus. My thoughts are a jumbled mess suddenly, of her then and her now, and all the thoughts I've had of her over the years and suppressed and embraced and ignored; every forbidden fantasy that I pretended not to have.

Fuck.

I run my fingers alone the inside of my shirt collar loosening the fabric, and I whisper, "Yes."

My confession changes the atmosphere around us instantly. I see her hands fidgeting out of the corner of my eye. Now she knows precisely how long I've wanted her. A long... _long_ while. The implication is clear and daunting. I've _always_ wanted her, and that is a terribly bold admission for a man married fourteen years. It doesn't by any means diminish my love for Astoria that I desired Hermione before our marriage, after her death...but if I'm honest it wasn't entirely absent the years in between. It feels a little like betrayal to have implied it, even indirectly.

The sound of the ocean waves is magnified by the silence, and I think about making another joke, or offering her water, or something to restore the tranquility of our silent research.

Her quill hovers over the journal like she wants to write something but forgot the words. Eventually, she sets it down. I turn the page of my book and pretend not to notice, mind still warring between torment and arousal, but her eyes are on me and the urge to glance upward is too strong to resist.

We share a quick, earnest look, and when her cheeks begin to pinken, I look away. She's waiting for me to make a move I'm not going to make. Not this time.

Even if I really _really_ fucking want to.

I shift my book and throw my ankle over my knee, wondering how the hell she could affect me this much when we're feet apart. It's all this fucking build-up, having her alone, knowing something is going to happen but not when. The anticipation is wearing me thin, unspoken tension feeding my distress.

She sets the journal aside and kneels beside me, reminding me very much of our afternoon on the sofa. The taste of her on my lips; her tempting kisses pushing me to my very limit. Just like that afternoon, it takes every ounce of my willpower not to pull her down into my lap. But this time it is different. We both sort of know the outcome of this night, where this next kiss will lead us. We knew it hours ago, on the cobblestone pathway.

So, with that knowledge, I look up and meet her deep, brown eyes which reflect all the same arousal and torment that I feel along with something else. She carries the weight of a decision already made. She knows what she wants, and now she's working up the courage to take it, to abandon her guilt and obligation and _be with me._

_Come on, Granger. Fucking kiss me already._

She touches my cheek and leans in to graze her lips against mine. I can feel their soft warmth before they touch down.

Receiving a kiss from her is a bit like being wrapped in a blanket on a freezing cold night. My need for her is urgent, persistent, and though I've desired several women in my life I don't remember it ever feeling quite this _vital_.

Fuck, I crave her to my very core.

While I want to be the kind of man who is gentle and patient, I really want to rip her goddamn dress off, and my internal struggle surely comes across in the way I move against her. My hand tightens in her hair and then releases; I pull her close and then loosen my embrace. My hands skim around indecent places without giving her the touch we both need.

And then she slides her hand down my chest, my abdomen. Expectation steals my breath and sends my heart into a flurry of quick beats.

Fuck. Oh... fuck yes.

She squeezes me a little over the fabric of my trousers; drags her palm up and down my length. My breath follows the movement of her hand – inhaling fully as she reaches the head of my cock and twists her palm skillfully over it; exhaling as her fingers glide down to the base and begin again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I put my hand on her neck and crush her lips against mine, my tongue swiping against hers in a greedy sort of way with each stroke of her hand. My short, heated breaths tell her what she already knows. I fucking want her. All of her. Everything. _She's fucking everything_. God I want her so desperately my chest feels like it's going to split half, lust and impending heartbreak plundering my fortitude.

I'm standing up and dragging her to the bedroom before I realize what the fuck I'm doing. I pull out of our kiss when I reach the dining table and brace myself on a chair.

"You're certain this is what you-"

She silences me with another kiss, and her hands move around the back of my neck, pulling me with her toward the master suite. When I acquiesce, which takes all of _two seconds_, she moves her fingers to my collar and makes quick work of my shirt buttons.

Fuck, _she's eager_.

I shrug the shirt off and drop it on the floor, and then wrap my arms around her back and find the zip to her dress. She wriggles out of the material and it drops to the floor in a heap as we approach the bed.

When she climbs backward on the mattress and pulls me with her, my eyes are drawn down to her pretty peach undergarments, her magnificent curves and smooth skin. My need overshadows all remaining concern as I climb forward and brush my lips over her neck. My hand drags over her collar, down to her supple, round breasts, then travels around to her backside. She unfastens my trousers with trembling fingers, kissing her way down my chest, teeth scraping against my rib cage and drawing sounds from me that I very rarely make. I touch every bit of her I can reach as she tugs down my trousers and boxers in one go, and her hand is wrapped around my cock before I can shirk the material off my legs.

"Fuck." Her hands feel excellent around me.

She kisses her way back up my chest, and I run my hand up and down her spine while she strokes me, catching my fingers under her bra strap and unhooking the clasp.

Our eyes meet and something visceral passes between us as we take off what remains of our clothes, quick, shallow kisses barely holding us over. Our bodies press together, kneeling face to face. I look down and she looks up.

_She looks pretty fucking certain._

So, I push her backward on the bed until she's laying flat and climb over her as I've imagined myself doing a hundred fucking times. I slide my leg between her thighs and rub my fingers against her wet folds, enjoying the soft noises she makes.

"Please," she whispers with closed eyes as I kiss her jaw. She wraps her legs around me and pulls me closer.

Fuck, yes.

I position myself and press forward into her, slowly, relishing the way she inhales, the way her flesh gives around me until I'm fully inside of her.

I brush her hair back with my fingertips and whisper against her ear, "Fuck you feel good," and then I pull out quick and thrust in again. She shudders around me, nails digging into my shoulders, her body acclimating to being filled again and again in this primal rhythm. The friction is exquisite, wet-hot-sin. Every inch of me is on fire.

She licks my neck and my hands fist in the sheets. There's something uniquely her in the way she touches me, licks me, pulls me in – both bossy and timid; passionate and unsure.

It's brilliant.

A minute passes, or maybe more because time is indecipherable with her in my arms. All I know is we're breathing each others air, exchanging quick, shallow gasps as we move against one another in synchrony. Her fingers trace my spine, and it feels so good I flatten myself against her with a moan, aching for more of her touch. I kiss her breasts and caress her soft thighs, giving her the tenderness she deserves, moving slow and relishing the sound of her breath, the feel of her soft skin.

Somewhere in the back of my head I acknowledge that I haven't enjoyed a missionary fuck this much in several years. It's intimate, the way we kiss and hold one another, the way her bare legs wrap around my middle, meeting eyes every so often with an unspoken admission.

This isn't meaningless sex.

When she whimpers, "Oh god," I feel a tingle at the base of my spine and all remaining self restraint flies directly out the window. I'm lost in her lips and her body and her perfect wet cunt. My hips quicken until she is rocking up and down beneath me, her hands all over me, her well timed noises fueling my most carnal need. She looks fucking overwhelmed, with her lips parted that way. It's crazy sexy seeing her like this, coming unraveled beneath me, after all these years.

My limbs tingle and muscles burn, but the position we're in is incredible, and she squeaks the word _yes_ like this is everything she wants, so I stay put and keep my pace until I can't fucking take it. I have to stop or I'm going to come.

I sit up and catch my breath, rearranging my legs and willing that delicious pressure to subside as I admire the view before me.

Fuck, she's an erotic sight. Her flushed skin, curls fanned out across my pillow, bruised lips and stiff pink nipples. She has love bites on her neck and breasts and I can't say that I regret it. My hand runs slowly from her neck down to her hip, tracing her lovely curves, memorizing her.

A warm flame travels quickly down my body as I kiss her legs and look down at where we're joined; as I watch myself slide out, slick and hard, and then glide in, her flesh swallowing mine. She makes a soft noise at the new angle and it draws my eyes upward. Her hand clenches around the pillow behind her and she rolls her hips against me.

"Fuck." _Those hips_. Oh god she moves them so well, pushing, grinding, clenching, pulling, over and over until I'm moaning. "I love how you move."

She watches my reactions while she does it over and over, and I think about flipping us so she can ride me but I like her under me too much. _Next time_.

I place my fingers strategically between her legs, knowing already what she likes and how to get her off, and when I shake my hand rapidly she makes an incredible sound. Her hand covers her mouth like she's trying to contain her own cry.

So, I work my hips against her, taking back control, pull away her hand, and lean in for a slow-moving kiss that's almost all tongue, enjoying the way it feels when she sighs, when she breathes against my cheek. I grab her knee and press it forward, watching her whimper as she takes me deeper.

"You're fucking beautiful."

Again.

All of me.

Her leg trembles against my side as I move faster, hand strumming quick over her center, feeling her clench and grasp and pant.

She tells me between cries, "_don't stop_," and I won't because this is too fucking perfect. It's permission to take her _this_ fast and _this_ deep, confirmation she needs what I need. Her nails dig into my sides, and with her surrounding my cock so tightly, it shoots a spark in every nerve.

"Look at me."

My voice is quiet but demanding. Insistent, just like my thrusts. When her eyes open and meet mine, wide and needy, it's intensely gratifying, not just because it's sexy as fuck, but because she listened.

_Good girl_.

Her hands cup my cheeks and I nod my head in approval. _Yes, just like that. Fuck._

Intense.

I feel a rush of excitement as she pulls my face toward hers and licks my parted lips, eyes still open, watching me.

She knows exactly what she's doing. Those noises, those kisses, those hips, those glimmering eyes staring up at me while I'm fucking her into the mattress. It doesn't matter if she is below me or not, she has me at her mercy, every action drawing a reaction from me until I'm unhinged.

Fuck.

I'm losing it all to her. The very last shred of my sanity.

My hand seeks hers out and I kiss her deeply, trying to express what I know I will never say aloud.

_Stay. I need you._

When she breaks our kiss it's with a shuddering gasp. Her nails dig into my hand, the back of my neck.

"Oh...god..." Her voice is just above a whisper, high pitched and sexy-feminine-perfection. I rest my forehead against hers for a moment, our creased brows touching as my hips quicken against her and then slow down, drawing it out.

"Yes," I whisper as she moves her hips against mine again, rocking, clenching, whimpering. "Fuck, yes."

The anticipation of her orgasm, painted on her rosy cheeks, her parted lips, is enough to nearly conjure my own. Fuck she's so hot and wet and beautiful. She's close, I can feel it. I shift my hips and ease the friction so I can outlast her.

With a few firm shakes of my hand against her center and the swipe of my tongue over her breast, I offer her the finishing touch.

Her fingers tremble against my neck as she curls into me, clenching around my cock until I can hardly move.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

I feel her shiver and flutter the second before she cries out and it's the sexiest sound I've ever heard. It's pleasure and overwhelm and unrestrained perfection.

_She's coming._

"Fuck."

Her entire body is moving against me, trembling, hand in my hair. I'm watching her ride it out, committing it all to memory, quaking with the intensity of my own impending climax.

My muscles are tight under her hands, entire body rigid save for the hips that rock against her. _I'm right fucking there._

_Right there._ The built up tension is fierce.

At the height of the moment, a sharp gasp gives me away and draws her eyes to mine.

My hips stutter. Her hands glide over me.

And I'm fucking lost in it.

Fuck.

Oh. _Fuck_.

My lips sink down on hers, melting and pausing and moaning into her mouth as I spill out in her depths over and over.

Incredible.

I move until the tremors are uncomfortable, and then I bury my sweaty forehead in the crook of her neck.

I'm sure she feels my heart racing because I feel hers. I feel so fucking good.

Every touch sends a shudder through us both.

Sensitive. Exhausted. Spent.

I knit my hands in her hair and kiss her again because I'm not ready to think. I'm not ready for her to think.

But even as I think that I don't want to think, I know it's too fucking late. I've already thought. And if I'm thinking, she's thinking, because I'm fairly sure her brain works at double the speed of an average persons. I break the kiss and roll onto my side and the pillow under my head feels so fucking nice it's like I've never known one properly.

Keeping my eyes trained on her, I stretch my sore limbs and watch every single move she makes.

The way she covers herself in the blankets, twists her hair to the side, stares at the ceiling while I stare at her.

_Fuck. Don't regret me._

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A/N: Thank you to my beta christyannb94 and to my lovely readers and reviewers. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Yes, there's more smut ahead... I planned for a _few_ days for a reason. :)


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This chapter was re-written on 5/13. After another read through I wanted to add detail and remove some of the redundant monologue. Nothing that impacts the storyline significantly. Lots of smut here so be warned...

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Only our hands are touching. My palm is up, hers is down, fingers knitted loosely. It's an uncomfortable post-coitus silence but not unbearable, and I won't get up because there's a part of me that wants her to know _I'll fucking wait_. I'll be content to stare at up at the stars through the skylight with her beside me, and when she's ready to talk or sleep or curl into my arms, I'll be here.

Her fingers slide gently between mine and a pleasant tingle runs up through my shoulder. My thumb grazes against the edge of her palm in reply.

I'm still here. Still awake.

She sits up and pulls the oversized fluffy white blanket into her chest, then tosses one side of it strategically over my lower half.

"Does my nakedness bother you, Granger?" I say with mock incredulity.

"Bother isn't the word I would choose, no," she says with an embarrassed look. Her voice is breathy and a little hoarse, and it does something to my insides when I think of the last sound she made; the last words she said. The position we were in when she cried out and trembled below me.

She's so fucking beautiful. Watching her come is intoxicating.

The memory arouses me, like I was just thrust directly into the eye of a storm, wrapped in her arms and legs.

"It's just a bit strange," she continues, snapping me abruptly to the present moment, "after all these years, looking over and seeing you undressed..."

My fingertips touch down between her shoulder blades and she exhales audibly, leaning forward so her temple is resting on her bent knees.

"Make your peace with it, Granger," I reply with a smile. "I'm not planning to wear many clothes in the coming days."

The corner of her mouth pulls upward into a half-grin, as my fingertips graze below her shoulder blades. Her eyes flutter, body relaxing into my touch. "A few years ago, I couldn't have fathomed disappearing for three days. So many obligations. So much to do all the time." Her voice was strained and somber over the last few words. She tightens her arms around her knees and looks out the window, but the ocean appears as little more than a dark void at this late hour on a moonless night. "I've never spent the night on the ocean."

"No? No leisure cruises?" It hits me squarely just how different our lives have been.

"Nary a vacation most of my life. I was all business, and so were my parents. My career required a fair amount of traveling and I would bring Ron and the kids along, but... I was almost always distracted with work." She cleared her throat; cleared the emotion from it. "Never quite learned how to relax properly without a book in my hand. No surprise there I'm sure, but I'm...trying."

Hermione was all work and no play. She always had been, even at eleven. The woman in front of me...she is different. Angry at herself for taking things for granted. "You'll find it's hard not to relax in the middle of the ocean," I assure her.

"With all your dark objects hiding here? Yes, quite relaxing." She looks to the other end of the room and her eyes linger in the dark corner. There's no real ire in her voice, but there is an undertone of worry, like something might reach out from the shadows.

"You're safe," I whisper, exploring her skin with feather-light strokes. "I promise."

Her eyes close, her lips part, gooseflesh rising on her arms. I hope it's from my touch and not her apprehension. She's always seemed so fucking fearless, fierce, but right now, naked and curled up tightly she seems... fragile. Everything in me wants to hold her.

I'm so fucked.

She makes a soft noise, affirming that she likes the way I'm touching her, so I continue on until she does what I've been longing for her to do, and lies down at my side with her head on my shoulder. I know by the way she curls into me like an affectionate feline that she is a cuddler, and there's a dull ache in my chest at the feel of her in my arms. It's more palpable than my swollen cock, and accompanied by a knot in my throat that I swallow past while I touch her hair. It feels like I'll die from it.

Oh, I am so completely fucked.

She tries to keep the blanket tucked between us to serve as a barrier, like her body pressing against mine would just be too intimate. It makes no sense when I was literally inside of her less than an hour ago.

I need to feel her skin. Her warm curves and limbs.

So I tug the blanket slowly from between us and her breath hitches almost inaudibly. It does something to my insides, the curves of her breasts against my rib cage, her abdomen against my side, her leg curling over mine. I push her long hair off her shoulders and draw patterns on her skin.

I think she'd jumped to the mostly correct assumption that Malfoy's don't cuddle, and that was true once.

A memory hits me squarely in the chest.

_Goddamn it Astoria, there's an entire fucking bed._

Just one of the many fucked up things I said when I thought I had forever. I tighten my arms around Granger like she's going to slip from my grasp.

We move against each other with mild brushes, quiet sighs. It's never been more exciting to study a new lover. I want her to feel what I feel, this all-consuming fiery obsession that propels me to hold her, claim her, fuck her until the world ends, but I honestly don't know how the hell she feels. Hermione Granger confuses me like no woman ever has, and I dare say I like that about her.

Her thigh rises just high enough to feel my arousal and I exhale in her hair; my hand tightens at her rib cage as she moves deliberately against me. The way she moves her hand down my side makes my heart beat faster, and I know she can hear it.

She's learning what makes me react.

_Everything_.

She's still so fucking foreign and at the same time beautifully familiar that every little touch sets me on fire. Her lips at my collarbone; her hand at my side; her smooth thigh against my shaft. I thought I'd been forever desensitized to sex. It was fun, pleasurable, and absurdly easy to get for a rich, good looking widower. The novelty of a new woman wears off shockingly fast.

She isn't a new woman though. I've known her for decades, and if my current state of being is any indication I might be semi-aroused for decades to come. I begin to feel normal for a few seconds and then I remember what she felt like from the inside and my mind is blown all over again. A vicious cycle.

I arch almost imperceptibly against her, craving motion, ready to flip her over and take what I want, but a then a small brazen hand runs from my navel downward. I watch with half lidded eyes as it tucks under the blanket.

My head presses back into the pillow and I make a quiet sound, not caring if I seem a little desperate. She can feel how fucking hard she made me; she can feel my heart pounding. Her lovely mouth drags over my chest while her hand works my cock in her firm grip beneath the blanket. It feels good to just lie back and let her have her way with me, so good that my eyes feel unfocused.

Her hand moves a little faster and my breath speeds up. She's persistent, rhythmic, pulling me toward delirium. A sound escapes my throat and then another as I watch her shoulder move up and down, her curls dragging over my skin from my shoulder to my chest.

"Fuck," I moan the word as she nips her teeth below my rib cage, rolling her palm over the head of my cock at the same time. Darkened brown eyes flash downward to her sinful hand and then up to look at me; to observe what she's done.

She's enchanting.

God, I want to feel her mouth on my cock. I imagine her lips around me and twitch against her palm, but the thing I want most is to watch her come again.

I sit forward and hold her jaw loosely with my fingertips pulling us together for a gentle kiss that mirrors the teasing strokes and bites she's used to torment me for the last several minutes. She moves to deepen it but I don't let her just then, instead grinning against her lips as I lay backward a centimeter at a time, luring her where I want her. Above me.

When she straddles me and presses her mouth to mine, all playfulness is gone. Our kiss deepens and then deepens more until she positions me against her warm center. I can feel her stretching around me, making room for me inside of her as she glides down. Fuck...she feels good. I hold her hips tight, and as my tongue curls against hers, I press her down and close the last inch that lies between us. Her moan reverberates in my mouth; fingers tighten around my shoulder. I'm deep, I can feel it, and I know I'm a complete prick for relishing in her slight discomfort, for grinding her down against me as she whimpers, but it's immensely satisfying to know I'm filling her to the brim, to sink into her that last bit — as far as she can take me.

She's covering her breasts with her hand and her forearm as we begin moving together, and I think about pulling it away so I can see her fully but the way her curves spill out of her own hand is hot as fuck, so I leave it and watch her move above me. Her tantalizing curves. Her tight stomach rolling as she quickens her hips.

Oh _fuck_.

My hand moves to the back of her neck, beneath her curls, holding her where I want her as her hips rock. I drag in a deep breath against her lips and meet her molten eyes.

"Fuck you're good at this. I knew you would be," I whisper. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes dark and hungry as she holds onto that carnal rhythm. With a boost of confidence, she kisses her way down my neck and rakes her fingernails through my hair. The way her backside lifts and drops draws a guttural sound from me. I'm sure I'm in heaven.

"Yes, fuck..." I say in that same desperate voice, hand clasping her backside and squeezing. She's doing wicked things with her nails and teeth and tongue, riding my cock expertly, and my toes are curling at the intensity of the pleasure. But as much as I'm enjoying this, she doesn't whimper the same when she's in control and _that's_ what I need. I need to make her make those sexy as fuck noises. Lose control for me.

So my arms wrap around her and I hold her solidly against my chest, knitting my fingers in her hair. And then...I thrust upward into her, until the room is filled with the sound of our skin clapping quickly, her staccato cries against my ear. I'm breathing hard into the crook of her neck, fingers closed tightly at her sides, holding her in place as my hips jump against her. Fuck, I love this position and I can tell she does too.

When I slow my pace she tries to take back control, setting her own divine rhythm and grinding against me for the friction she needs. I meet her midway, pleased that we're able to stay in sync with one another. It's just enough to keep me on a glorious high while she takes what she wants.

And just as I'm thinking that she's an excellent fuck and that I hardly deserve to have this experience, my mind latches onto an old memory that reconfirms how unworthy I am.

_I'd bet my broom she's an excellent fuck. Maybe I'll make a whore out of her when this ends._

I hear myself saying the words to Theo back at Hogwarts by the lake, watching her walk across the grass with her friends. It makes my stomach roll and my chest tighten.

My heart stops for a full second.

And then I pull her in for a deep kiss that's all apology, because I don't fucking deserve the privilege of seeing her so unrestrained. I didn't then; I don't today. When she stills and puts all her attention into our joined lips and swirling tongues, I don't think the meaning of it is lost on her.

I cradle her tightly and roll her so she's under me. My hand drops from her shoulder to her breast as I roll my hips, swirl my thumb over her nipple. My other hand drops between her thighs. I want to give her everything she wants.

I want to earn her.

"Yes," she moans into our kiss as she presses herself into my nimble hands. I quicken my rhythm as she comes closer.

Her hand grips my forearm, her head drops to the crook of my neck as I push her closer to the edge. She's tight and trembling and I love feeling her nails digging, her forehead creasing against my skin, her delicate frame below me. She's crying into my skin as I shift and plunder against her, as I touch her and kiss her in every way I can to maximize her pleasure. I want her to feel me everywhere.

"Oh god," she gasps and stills and finally, she breaks.

I hold her tight to me as her thighs quiver, but my hips don't relent; they don't slow when I push the hair away from her face and cradle her head. They don't slow when I kiss her cheek, or when I whisper her name, because feeling her come undone is my undoing. She looks up into my eyes like she's eager to see it, studies my face like she's never seen me before, runs her fingers through my hair, touches my lips as they part. And I spill out inside of her with a choked sound, her eyes locked on mine as they unfocus and blink closed.

Fuck. It's surreal, coming inside of her.

I moan into her temple as our limbs tangle together. I know I should roll off, but I love this feeling. Her small frame and her curls and our sweat.

My hand runs down her arm to seek her hand, and she laces our fingers as we each catch our breath.

"We're good together," I whisper against her ear. My lips travel across her jaw, eyes regaining focus in time to see her eyes flutter.

"So good," she whispers back breathlessly.

I make a small sound at the back of my throat. "We're just getting started."

—-

We fall asleep quickly after our second round, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, her limbs are draped over me, head on my chest, foot against my calf, hair blanketing my shoulder and upper arm.

I feel almost guilty for the way my lungs expand for oxygen, the way my cock engorges against her thigh, but she doesn't stir in the slightest.

Usually when I wake up in the middle of the night, I feel unpleasant in one way or another, whether from fucked up dreams or fucked up thoughts, but tonight I feel...content.

When I close my eyes again, they don't open until the sun is up.

—

I can feel her staring at me before my eyes open. She's kneeling at my side again, touching my jaw with the pad of her finger, feeling the stubble that's grown in overnight. I turn my face into her hand and I kiss her palm.

"Good morning," I whisper, cracking open my heavy eyelids. The sun is fucking offensive so I shut them again promptly. There's no question in my mind why she wants me awake, and while I wish it was for more sex I'd be a fool to think it.

She wants to see the room on the lower deck. Wants to know what I'm hiding.

I grumble, tightening my sleepy eyes. "You're the most impatient witch..."

"I haven't even said anything!" she replies indignantly.

"You don't have to." I rub my palms against my eyes and will myself awake. "I'm surprised you haven't already searched the place."

I open my eyes and look upon her. Beautiful. Worried. Guilty as fuck.

"You did, didn't you."

Her mouth opens and closes and then opens again with a wry look. "I did."

"I assume you found what you were looking for," I say in a disapproving tone as I sit upright. Her mouth curves uneasily and I know I'm right. "It would take blood magic to keep a witch like you out of a locked room."

"But I have to say, I am impressed with your locking charms. They were...quite good." Her eyes drop, open a fraction when she sees my morning arousal and then rise again with a swallow.

"You didn't touch anything in the room."

"Of course not," she said testily. "I just took a peek."

Fuck. It occurs to me suddenly that I have a boggart in the room.

If it were anyone else in the world I'd be laughing hysterically, but the sallow look on her face puts my stomach in a knot. Her furrowed brow, her bloodshot eyes, the flicker of suffering as our eyes lock.

She saw something devastating. Those of us who have experienced substantial loss don't see things like a swarm of wasps or an evil monster. We see death. Realistic and horrifying.

I see Astoria every fucking time. And I wonder sometimes why I don't see Scorpius, but I think my worst fear is going through something like Astoria's death again. Her last breath is the's the embodiment of everything I fear.

My eyes close for two seconds as I fight away the vision, as I wonder about hers, and by the time I open them she's already climbing to the edge of the bed. I dart forward and grab her hand.

She stills as I scoot behind her, stiff posture telling me she is not ready to be touched too intimately, so I keep a few inches of space between her back and my chest and graze my hands over her shoulders.

She's wearing my shirt. The one I discarded on the floor last night.

Fuck, that is sexy.

I clear my throat silently.

And then an anxious feeling roots itself in my chest. Where the fuck is my elf and why didn't he warn me she was snooping around?

"Fleck."

My elf appears with a pop, looking weary and somehow older in the sunlight that streams through the windows. A year ago, he would have been at my side warning me that Granger was exploring the forbidden room, and I think that sharp elf who used to catch me when I fell off my broom and tattle when I played in the dungeons is fading. Withering.

"Alright there old man?" My insides twist as he takes a ragged breath.

"Fleck is not dead yet, Master Draco."

I worry he might be soon, but I smile a little because he thinks he's so fucking funny.

"Are you fit to serve?"

He narrows his eyes and glares at me like I just called his mother a strumpet. Hermione cracks a smile at the evil glare and drops her head forward into her hands.

"Right then. Two teas and whatever fruit you have in the kitchen."

Pop.

"He's a surly old thing isn't he?" I say over her shoulder.

Tea for two and a prickly pear appear on a serving tray beside us.

"I think he heard you," she whispers with a smile, moving discreetly away from me under the guise of fixing her tea.

We sit on the bed with the tray between us and I study her silently as she delves into another journal, but I cannot stop thinking of what she might have seen in the room below. What boggart Weasley could have looked like. Was he dead? Bloody? What if he was alive—the the husband she remembered, but with a scathing tongue, lashing her for fucking a man he had hated?

I'll never ask, and I'm certain she'll never tell.

A few minutes pass before I scoot off the bed and summon a towel for my waist.

"I'm going to take a shower," I say quietly. She nods without looking up. Two steps toward the large master bath, I make a full stop and turn on my heel. I won't make it this easy for her to dismiss me.

"Come with me."

She looks up from the journal and her eyes dart over my bare chest, then up to my eyes. Her hand closes around the front of her shirt. My shirt.

I step closer to her, until my thighs hit the mattress. Her chest is rising and falling, and I swear it's like starting from scratch all over again. Like we didn't spend the entire night wrapped around one another.

For fucks sake, Granger. How many times do I have to seduce you?

"Come on."

For a second she doesn't move, and I think I've made a mistake, pushing her for this. It's another first I'm taking, showering with a man who isn't Weasley, and I think maybe she can't share another first with me so quickly.

But I swallow my doubt and pull at the blanket covering her bare legs. And then, I pull her ankles and drag her toward me with a smirk. Her open mouthed squeal tells me she isn't used to being manhandled, and I think it's quite possible she has never been dragged, carried, bent over, tossed around or any of the other things I so love doing.

When she moans and lets me hoist her up, I'm certain she'll get used to me.

—

The water is hot. The air, thick with steam and desire and the scent of my shampoo. I watch her rinse her hair, bubbles pouring over her backside while I think of sex. The tasteless variety. As experienced as she is, there's still an innocence about her, and the devil in me wants to take it. Corrupt her. Fuck her... creatively.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. I'm not going to do any of those things because she is the type of woman who I have to seduce all over again every time I want to see her naked. The last thing I want is to scare her off.

Hermione Granger is way too fucking good for a man like me.

So I kiss her like the treasure that she is and I enjoy her soft, wet skin sliding against mine. I give her time and I don't move too quickly, because I want her to offer herself to me. I want to give and not _take_ for once in my fucking life.

I'm fucking floored when she slides down my body and kneels before me. She looks up with water droplets on her long lashes and my cock in her hand, and my jaw drops when she rubs the tip back and forth across her bottom lip. I shudder when her tongue darts out.

This wasn't what I intended when I dragged her into the shower with me, but getting head from her is deeply satisfying. A fantasy fulfilled. She's all kitten licks and innocent eyes at first, until she understands the power she holds over me. Hears the noises that escape me when she takes me in. And then, she turns vixen at the drop of a galleon.

"Fuck," I whisper and tremble when her nose touches my abdomen. She's taking me deep. "That's good." She pulls back with a pop and licks the underside of my shaft before taking me in once more.

I'm trying hard not to hold her head and set her pace, but I'm itching to go faster, drive deeper, fulfill the darker version of this fantasy. And I tell myself I can put my hands in her wet hair without fucking her mouth. I can do it.

Her curls are heavy silk. She's so fucking beautiful like this.

A minute later, her eyes are rimmed red from gagging on me, because I don't have as much self-restraint as I like to think.

I bend down and kiss her appreciatively. Apologetically. Her lips are slippery and swollen and she tastes like me. Like sex.

Reality is better than any fantasy. My imagination doesn't offer up these little erotic details, and I sear them into my memory for lonely nights to come.

When I raise myself to standing, I expect her to come with me, to press her against the wall and finish inside of her, but she stays on her knees bravely while I brace myself on the wall. My muscles are tight when she puts her mouth around me, legs straight, and I'm trying like hell not to touch the back of her head. She's doing just fine at getting me there without any assistance, using her tongue and her lips and her throat and her hands until my breath is coming in short gasps.

"I'm close..." I warn her, and her eyes dart upward to meet mine with a flash of eagerness. I pull away her hand because I want her to bring me the rest of the way with just her lips and her heavenly tongue. She's watching me raptly as my hips jerk. Wet hair falls in my eyes. My brow furrows with pleasure.

"Fuck...Hermione..." I suck in a tight breath. Her pink lips sink and lift and sink and my muscles quiver with pent up need.

The tension peaks exquisitely, and then my head cracks against the wall and I'm pulsing in her mouth, splashing her throat, her tongue.

Fucking _fuck_.

I sink down against the wall and pull her into my lap, kissing her slick reddened lips and moving my tongue languidly against hers.

My knuckles graze down her abdomen and between her legs.

Fuck. When I slide a digit between her folds and press against her entrance, there's no question that she enjoyed giving me head.

She sucked like she enjoyed it.

We kiss while I play with her, sliding my fingers in and out, rubbing her clit in small circles until she's tensing up. My lips close over her nipple, and the sound she makes echoes perfectly off the shower walls, like a fucking chorus.

She's going to kill me when she sees what I've done to her neck.

"Fuck you're sexy," I whisper, clapping my hand against her center, the splashing water making it louder than it would be otherwise. Her thighs tighten around me and then spread like shes searching for something. Nails dig into the back of my neck. "You want to come?"

She moans in response.

"Look at me."

She does as instructed, eyes dark and flitting from my lips to my eyes. And I give her what she wants, watching her eyes roll backward and flutter closed.

She tastes like water as I lick her neck.

I never want to let her go.


End file.
